


A Wing and a Prayer

by Setari



Series: Trapped in the Amber [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family Feels, Id Fic, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Mostly Gen, Multi, Next Generation Winchesters (Supernatural), Not Canon Compliant from Season 9 onwards, Original Character-centric, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Original Character, Queer Themes, Self-Indulgent, Tags May Change, Time Travel Fix-It, Women Being Awesome, original lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 92,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28795080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Setari/pseuds/Setari
Summary: Meira Winchester has always been an abomination in the eyes of the supernatural world. One attempt to destroy her is slightly more successful than most, binding her grace mid-flight and sending her crashing into the past. Stuck in a time before she was even a twinkle in anyone's eye with no way home, Meira attaches herself to the only familiar thing she can find; Sam and Dean Winchester.
Relationships: Castiel/Gabriel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester & Original Female Character(s), Supernatural (TV) Characters/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Trapped in the Amber [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2111172
Comments: 71
Kudos: 39





	1. A Fallen Star

**Author's Note:**

> Alrighty. This series is ridiculously self-indulgent, ridiculously long, and on indefinite haitus, but I'm going to upload what I've written so far primarily because it will make it a lot easier for me when I want to reread this nonsense =P You have been warned.
> 
> So, for the most part, this is going to stick fairly close to canon for a good long while. Meira is going to make changes, but they're going to take a while to really start affecting things. I'm only just getting to the point where the chapters aren't more or less always following the episode they're based on, and I've written up to about a third of the way through season 2, which, the way I've been breaking this story up, means nearly to the end of the third 'book'. After that, updates will be on a 'when life isn't kicking my ass and I feel like it' basis.
> 
> (Series title taken from Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut, a book which I've never read, honestly, but it seemed appropriate; "Here we are, trapped in the amber of this moment. There is no why.")
> 
> (Story title taken from the song Learning to Fly by Pink Floyd)

**Blackwater Ridge, Lost Creek, Colorado – Friday 11 th November 2005**

Landing in the past feels like hitting the emergency stop on a bullet train, like she left her internal organs behind somewhere on the timeline. Meira knows it’s the past because the timeline had felt thick and gooey as she fell. Falling in the other direction would have felt worse, but that doesn’t mean she enjoyed the trip. Add that to the sensation of her grace suddenly retreating to coil up under her skin like a wounded animal, and she thinks it’s no surprise that the first thing she does once there’s solid ground beneath her feet is throw up.

“Oh, son of a bitch.” She groans once her stomach feels like it’s settled mostly back where it’s supposed to be. She braces her shoulder on a tree that’s conveniently nearby, and tries to get her bearings. She’s in a forest, she sees, as she looks around. There are a _lot_ of forests on earth. There are forests elsewhere in the universe too, but she’s… pretty sure this is earth, anyway. And she’s somewhen in the past, although she can’t get any sense of where she actually is on the timeline, and when she tries to reach out with her grace to find out, a sharp, awful pain lances through her soul. She groans and staggers, leaning more of her weight against the tree and forcing her knees to keep her upright out of sheer force of will. She is not trying that again.

The thought that there might be something wrong with her grace is terrifying. She’s stranded, and she can’t get home. She thinks she _might_ be able to manifest her wings, she can still feel them, after all, so they’re not _gone_ , but she wouldn’t be able to fly on them. She can’t fly. She _can’t fly_.

The panic sits sharp and cloying in the back of her throat, and she swallows hard, as if that might get rid of it. It doesn’t. “Mother _fucker_.” She swears, and hates that it comes out more reedy than fierce. She has no idea how this happened, either, which doesn’t help. Well, she has _some_ idea, because Heaven, Hell, and everyone in between has been trying to get rid of her for her entire life, and if whatever’s wrong with her grace is why she fell into the past, then she’d say someone finally succeeded. Dad’s going to go ballistic, she thinks, not sure if it makes her want to laugh, or cry.

“Hey, lady.” Someone barks, and Meira flinches so hard she nearly falls over. It’s only a decade of various combat training that saves her from ending up on her ass in the dirt. She has never in her life been unable to sense the people around her before. She’s _always_ felt the shades and shapes of people’s souls. Until now, apparently, with her grace trapped under her skin and unable to reach out to feel the nuances of her environment.

The man standing a little ways off is fairly nondescript, with short-cropped light blonde hair and a touch of stubble, wearing what looks like wilderness gear. Meira has no idea what lies beneath his face, whether she can trust him or not and it makes her uneasy. “What’re you doing out here?” He demands.

“Getting lost?” Meira sasses, because nervousness has never helped shut her up.

And then, another man steps out of the underbrush, but this one, Meira recognises. It’s her dad. Even though he looks so baby-faced and _young_ , she’d know him anywhere. The relief is like a physical blow and she sags against another tree. “And my name’s Meira.” She adds. “Not ‘lady’, thanks.”

Dad quirks a grin, enjoying her sass, and then says, with every ounce of cocky bravado she’s ever seen him use and then some; “Nice to meet you, Meira. I’m Dean.” He glances over at the other guy. “And this is… I’m sorry, what was your name again?” The question is so obviously insincere, and Meira chokes on an incredulous laugh, because she’s seen her dad playful before, even bordering on mean when he’s trying not to admit something’s wrong, but that was something else. It’s macho-posturing, she realises, with a mixture of hilarity and dread. He’s _showing off_ , like a twat, for _her_.

Oh, god. She’s going to have to nip that _right_ in the bud, or she’s going to throw up again.

“Roy. Roy Roberts.” The other guy replies through gritted teeth, glaring at Dad – at _Dean_ , she’s going to have to get used to that, or she’s going to slip up, and things are going to get awkward _real fast_ – with enough venom to bring down an elephant.

“Hey, mind if I tag along with you guys?” Meira asks, to diffuse some of the angry tension in the air. Absently she wonders if this is before Dean has admitted that he’s into guys, too, because that might explain some of that. Roy is a fairly good looking guy, after all. He reminds Meira of that guy who played Bond in those movies Dad likes from before she was born. That… probably haven’t even been made yet. Damn it. She’s going to have to be careful with things like that. “I have _no idea_ where I am right now.” She adds, because Roy does not look convinced.

“We’re heading further in, not back out.” He warns her.

Meira shrugs. “You’re still a better option than trying to make it by myself.” And she has absolutely no intention of going anywhere without Dad. It’s not really very rational, but he’s her only point of reference right now, and until she can get her feet under herself and figure out what the fuck to do, she could use the illusion of support. So she grins into the face of Roy’s unimpressed glower. “You know I’m only asking as a formality, right? If you say no, I’ll just follow you anyway, because what the hell else am I gonna do?”

Roy’s glower shades towards resigned, and Meira knows she’s won. Her grin sharpens, and he rolls his eyes, but nods his acceptance. “Come on, then, if you’re coming.” He instructs, heading back the way he came without any further ado, leaving Meira alone with her baby-faced father.

There’s a brief moment where they stare at each other, both of them at a loss, and then Dad – _Dean_ – jerks his head towards the bit of forest Roy disappeared into, and Meira takes that as her cue to fall into step with him. “So, before you were getting lost, what were you doing out here?” Dean asks, looking at her with open curiosity. Then his eyes flicker down and up again, and Meira catches herself before an Enochian exorcism can fall out of her mouth on instinct.

Instead, she switches to the first lie she can come up with that might make _her dad_ stop looking at her like that. “I was running away from a dickbag who wouldn’t take no for an answer.” She says without looking at him.

There’s a beat of silence, and a glance shows Meira that Dean is grimacing. “What an asshole.” He comments right as they catch up with the others again. Roy looks sour, but he’s attentive, scanning the surroundings with a keen eye, which Meira appreciates, and standing nearby is Uncle Sam. Only he’s a squishy-cheeked, smooth-faced, gangly-limbed _baby-Uncle_ now. Meira has to bite back the urge to coo and possibly pinch his cheeks.

The other two in the group are people Meira doesn’t recognise, a teenage boy with close-cropped hair, and a young woman with cute dimples that show when she smiles at Meira in greeting. Meira smiles back with extra warmth. “This is my brother, Sam.” Dean says, taking it upon himself to do introductions. “And this is Haley and Ben Collins. Their brother’s gone missing, which is why we’re here, looking for him.” He explains, gesturing.

“I hope we find him.” Meira says, specifically to Haley. She’s just decided that Haley is her salvation, and she offers her hand to the other woman to shake. “I’m Meira.” Haley takes her hand with a hint of befuddlement.

“Alright, let’s keep moving.” Roy calls, before Meira can add anything else. She does let her hand linger, though, just a touch, before she retracts it. Their group moves off again, and Meira makes it a point to walk beside Haley.

“Tell me about your brother?” She asks, just to strike up conversation.

Haley glances at her sideways, but obliges. It’s clear she loves her family in the way she talks about them, and Meira catches herself smiling for real, not just as a flirtation, although it’s that as well. She does make a point to tell Haley how admirable she thinks it is, that sort of devotion to family, and Haley ducks her head with a rueful smile, bashful.

Behind them, Sam snickers. Meira glances back and catches a disgruntled pout on her dad’s face before he smooths it out into something more neutral once he realises she’s looking. She makes a bit of a show of glancing between Haley and Dean, and then grins, unrepentant, and shrugs in faux-apology. Dean snorts and waves her off, conceding defeat gracefully enough.

When Meira turns back around, Haley is watching her, one eyebrow arched. Meira refuses to feel sheepish at being caught out, and nudges her with her shoulder, gentle and teasing, and asks her another question about her life. Haley rolls her eyes, but answers.

The conversation carries them on through the afternoon, until they reach a point where Roy stops. It’s almost a clearing, if it wasn’t for the waist-high undergrowth. “This is it.” Roy says, looking about them. “Blackwater Ridge.”

“What coordinates are we at?” Uncle Sam asks at once. Roy answers, and Meira aches a little at how incomprehensible the numbers are. Before, she would have just _known_ where she was, and she feels a little sick, being made aware of just how little she can tell about the world around her now. She looks around, hating how small she feels, how muffled everything is. She doesn’t dare try to reach out with her grace again, but she wants to, just to make that feeling of _wrong_ go away.

“I’m going to go take a look around.” Roy announces.

Meira whips around to give him an incredulous look. He might not be in the know, might not realise that Sam and Dean are probably on a hunt right now, but even so, it seems reckless for anyone to go off on their own. “You shouldn’t go off by yourself.” Sam points out, so Meira doesn’t have to.

“I’ll go with you.” Meira offers, since no one else seems like they’re about to.

It earns her incredulous looks from all quarters, and a disparaging one from Roy. Meira gives him a hard look in return, the sort of ‘do you really want to try me, bitch?’ look that Pabbi has always told her makes her look like her qaada. And she might not be able to bring her grace to bear along with it like she usually does, but she is still an angel, no matter how constrained, and it would take a tougher man than Roy Roberts to not even blink in the face of heavenly wrath.

“Look,” he says in a carefully reasonable tone, “I know these woods, and I’m just going to have a look around, see if I can find any signs of people. I’ll be fine. _You’ll_ be safer staying here.”

“You’d be safer staying with the group, too.” Dean interjects, making no effort to sound inoffensive. Roy gives him a sour look.

“Why don’t we _all_ go?” Haley suggests, all false brightness and impatience.

Roy raises his hands in frustrated surrender, and heads off into the woods. The rest of them follow along like good little ducklings. They do spread out a little as they go, looking for any signs of other people in the area. Meira is not an expert woodsman, but she’d learned a few things growing up with a hunter family, and she tries to pay attention, to be helpful.

“Haley! Over here!” Roy shouts suddenly. Everyone bolts towards the shout, and they come out in a clearing with three tents lying there in mangled wreckages, blood-splattered and torn. “Oh my god…” Haley breathes, sounding horrified. Meira doesn’t blame her. She feels a little bit sick, too, and it’s not her brother’s campsite. The thought of something like this happening to Jace makes her want to smite something, and her grace roils under her skin, pushing at the boundaries of her physical form and aching every time it brushes against the inside of her skin.

“Looks like a grizzly.” Roy remarks, cool and practical.

Meira thinks not. Not only because if it was, it’s unlikely her dad and her uncle would be here, but also because there would be more blood and less wanton destruction if it had been a normal animal. If a bear had been hungry enough to hunt people, there would be a lot more blood, at least, and if it was pissed at them being on its territory, there would be bodies. But there aren’t. There’s only a bit of blood splattered about here and there, and a _lot_ of claw marks.

Haley begins shouting for her brother, and Meira grabs her arm before she can walk any further into the camp. “Don’t.” She warns, eyeing the surrounding woods warily.

“What?” Haley demands, eyes a little wild. “Why not?”

“Something might still be out there.” Sam interjects, giving Meira a respectful nod. She tries to smile back, but she’s not too proud to admit that she’s scared. She ought to be able to _tell_ what did this, to _feel_ the spirits and souls around her and _know_. But she can’t.

“Sam!” Dean calls, and Sam heads off at a brisk clip.

Meira heads after him on instinct. Haley follows her for about three steps before Ben calls out in a voice that wavers despite his best efforts, and she turns back to him without hesitation. Meira catches up to Sam just in time to hear Dean saying “-tell you what, it’s no skin-walker or black dog.” Then Dean turns and stalls at the sight of her. “Uh…” He says, staring at her like a deer in the headlights.

In other circumstances, Meira might glory in making her dad look like that for once, instead of the other way around, but she’s still feeling unnerved enough that it’s hard to wring any humour out of the situation. “Why are we ruling out skin-walkers and black dogs?” She asks, propping her shoulder on a tree and crossing her arms. It looks less pathetic than curling her arms around her sides, but it still serves to make herself feel better. What would be best would be a hug from her dad, but there’s no way she’d ask for that when he’d probably just take it the wrong way.

“You-” Sam begins, realisation dawning in his expression.

“You’re a Hunter?” Dean demands.

“More or less.” Meira agrees. It’s never been a title that sits right on her shoulders. Not when she’s spent her whole life surrounded by people who actually dedicated themselves to the job, while she’s always felt more like a kid mucking about with a hobby. At Dean’s sceptical, bordering on suspicious look, she elaborates. “I was raised to it, but I’ve never… dedicated myself to it.” She hedged. “I just help out here and there when something crosses my path.”

“Right.” Dean acknowledges, and then jerks his head towards something behind him. Meira comes closer to look, and Dean explains the tracks. It’s almost like being a kid again, with Dad schooling her on this or that aspect of hunting.

“A skin-walker or a black dog _could_ drag a person away, but you’re right, the tracks just stopping like that is weird.” Meira acknowledges, wracking her brains for what could do this. “A phantom cat could, too. Or a wendigo or a moonfiend. Or a harpy, maybe. It’s too early for a werewolf.”

“Werewolves don’t tend to drag their victims off, never mind vanish with them.” Dean points out.

“What’s a moonfiend?” Sam asks.

Meira blinks, reminded suddenly that this is not really her uncle. “It’s a… It’s kind of like a mothman, but less aggressive. They’re mostly harmless, actually, really shy, but if they’ve staked out a territory, you _don’t_ want to go wandering into it.” She explains absently. “It’s just that they can fly, which would explain…” She gestures at the vanishing tracks. “Like Harpies. Wendigos are fast and agile enough to lift a human body, and phantom cats are spirits. It’s possible a phantom cats could transport a victim that way, but they don’t tend to drag people off, either.”

“Phantom cat. That’s the animal version of a poltergeist, right?” Dean checks.

Meira nods. “Yeah, pretty much. Although normal poltergeists generally just want to hurt or kill you, but some legends suggest that phantom cats steal souls.”

“The pattern of attacks would suggest it’s hunting, not protecting territory, so I don’t think it’s a moonfiend.” Sam adds with a grimace.

The three of them look at each other, all of them coming to the same conclusion, none of them actually willing to say it out loud. Before someone can muster their courage, the forest air is shattered with a shout.

“HELP!”

Meira startles, and then lurches into a run before she’s had time to think. Of course, Dean and Sam are already on the move, too, even as a second, and then a third cry echoes through the forest. They converge with the others, a wordless scream that sounds closer than ever egging them on. Then the forest goes silent, and they slow to a stop, wary and alert, listening hard. “It seemed like it was coming from around here, didn’t it?” Haley asks.

Meira feels painfully vulnerable, and she tests her grace, to see if she can conjure her blade. It’s made from her grace, and it’s still there, so the blade should be there, but when she tries to manifest it, a lance of white-hot pain ricochets through her, and she clutches at her wrist, gritting her teeth against the agony.

“Everybody back to camp.” Sam orders, and Meira obeys on instinct. She’s never felt so vulnerable before in her entire life, and it only gets worse when she realises they’ve fallen for a trap and all their gear is gone. Before, she wouldn’t have worried. She’s an angel, she can survive off the ambient energy of the universe if she needs to. It’s not fun, but it’s possible. But now, she has no idea what she can and can’t do. Her grace is still _there_ , warming her bones, but every time she reaches for it, all she gets is pain.

“Alright, listen up.” Sam says briskly, looking around the camp with a tight expression on his face. “It’s time to go. Things have gotten more complicated.”

“What?” Haley asks, incredulous and irritated.

“Kid, don’t worry. Whatever’s out there, I think I can handle it.” Roy says, and Meira’s tempted to deck him for the condescending arrogance in his voice.

“If you don’t even know what it is, you have _no idea_ whether you can handle it.” She snaps. It seems to startle everyone, but Meira doesn’t care. Yesterday, a wendigo wouldn’t have frightened her. She could move faster than it, could burn it to death with only a touch of the holy light in her soul, but today, she’s as helpless as Roy Roberts, and it pisses her off that he’s not as scared as she is.

“Sweetheart, when you’ve been hunting as long as I have, there isn’t much the woods can throw at you that you can’t handle.” Roy retorts smugly.

Meira scoffs incredulously, suddenly hating him. “Oh, that’s what this is. Did Sam taking charge just now wound your fragile male ego? Are you really going to put everyone here at risk because of your god damned pride?”

“How dare you suggest-”

“Hey, relax.” Dean interjects. Even though it isn’t directed at her, Meira can’t help but subside, too used to Dad mediating arguments between her and Jace, or her and Rob, or her and Pabbi that way.

Apparently, Uncle Sam hasn’t gotten the memo, though. “She’s right.” He says, as if Dad hadn’t said anything at all. “You have no idea what’s out there, what it can do. I’m just trying to protect you.”

“You, protect me?” Roy scoffs. “I was hunting these woods when your mommy was still kissing you goodnight.” He spits, getting into Uncle Sam’s face.

“Isn’t it about time you retired, then?” Meira snarks.

“You shut your mouth.” Roy barks, rounding on her.

“Okay, that’s enough!” Dad snaps, getting between them with both his hands out as if to physically hold them away from each other. “Just chill out, okay?” He prompts, giving Uncle Sam a pointed look. Meira tucks her arms around herself and tries not to freak out any more than she already has. Haley putting a hand on her shoulder makes her jump, but the comforting squeeze she gets helps a little.

“We don’t have _time_ , Dean. We have to get these people out of here before this thing eats them alive.” Uncle Sam protests furiously.

“Look.” Haley speaks up, interrupting whatever Roy had been about to say in answer to that. “Tommy might still be alive.” She states, and Meira knows what’s coming next. She knows, because it’s what she’d say if it was Jace out here, in the claws of a wendigo. It’s what Dad would say if it was Uncle Sam. “And I’m not leaving here without him.”

“Then we’re going to need fire.” Meira says. “Lots and _lots_ of fire.”

* * *

**Blackwater Ridge, Lost Creek, Colorado – Saturday 12 th  November 2005 **

They build up a large campfire, and several smaller fires, too, and Meira helps her dad draw protective symbols around their camp. And then they sit and wait for morning or the wendigo, whichever comes first. The hours draw on interminably, and Meira sits right by the fire, close enough that she feels a little feverish with the heat baking her face, but it’s close enough that she could grab one of the big branches out of the fire if she needed to.

Sitting and waiting isn’t the best plan though, she thinks grimly. For morning, yes. Wendigos don’t really like bright sunlight, so they’ll have that small advantage once the sun rises, but after that? Haley isn’t leaving without her brother, and her brother, if he’s still alive, will be in the wendigo’s lair. Which they’ll need to find, and get into, and get out of, without dying or getting caught themselves.

“What’re you thinking?” Haley asks quietly, nudging her.

Meira glances at her, sees how worried she looks, and musters up a smile. “I’m trying to figure out how we’re going to find Tommy.” Haley blinks, then almost smiles, except not really. Meira knows the feeling, and goes back to staring at the fire. “Even if we kill this thing, we’d still need to find him, and… Shit, that’s a _lot_ of wilderness to comb through.”

“We’ll do it.” Haley insists stubbornly. “I’ll do it.”

Meira smiles, slanting a fond look at her. “I know.” She assures her. “I have a little brother, too. I’d take on a wendigo for him, too.” That wouldn’t really have been saying much before, but now? Like this? She still means it.

“A…” Haley falters, frowning. “I’ve heard of that before. Isn’t that some sort of Native legend or something?”

Meira nodded. “Algonquian peoples, primarily. They tended to live more northward, where the long, lean winters often led to starvation. And starvation sometimes led to people who who looked at their families and friends, and saw not people they loved, but food.” Haley shudders in distaste. “And once they’ve eaten someone, they start craving it, and every time they eat someone else, they turn a little bit more monstrous.”

Haley gives her a sharp look, fear buried under anger. “You mean this thing’s going to _eat_ Tommy?” She demands in a harsh whisper.

“It’s planning to, yeah. But it probably hasn’t yet.” Meira reassures, reaching out to put an arm around Haley’s shoulders. Haley grabs her other wrist in a desperate, unthinking motion, clinging to hope. “Wendigos are born of deprivation, they know what it’s like to go hungry, and they hate it. They tend to hunt in spurts, and hibernate for long stretches of time in between, but they don’t gorge themselves. They’ll take people alive if they can, so they have food for later.”

Haley squeezes her eyes shut. Then she sets her jaw and nods. “How can we kill this thing?” She asks in a hard voice.

Meira looks away. “I’m starting to wonder if we should.” She admits.

“What?” Haley asks, so sharply that Sam and Dean look over at them from where they’re sitting together across the fire, heads bent together and discussing something.

Meira opens her mouth to explain what she’s thinking, what she doesn’t _want_ to be thinking, but before she can, someone out in the woods calls for help. She cringes, even as everyone else leaps to their feet, those with guns aiming them out into the night. She knows that it’s the wendigo, knows that it isn’t some poor bastard getting chowed on, but… well, before, she would have _known_ , would have felt it, would have been able to tell for sure that, no, the only soul out there is the corrupted one of the wendigo. Now, all she has to go on is cold logic. It’s enough to convince her head, but not her soul.

Some part of her still feels the need to go and check, to be _sure_ , because what if she’s just sitting here, listening to someone die when she could have helped them? Then the gunfire starts up. “I hit it!” Roy shouts suddenly, and Meira’s head jerks up in time to see him dodging around one of their extra fires and rushing out into the woods.

She’s on her feet before she can think about it. Then she hesitates. What is she going to do, without her grace? But she can’t just leave him to his fate, either, no matter how much she doesn’t like him. “Don’t move!” Her dad orders, right before going after Roy himself.

That cinches it, really. Meira’s not leaving her dad out there with a wendigo. She snatches up one of the burning sticks, and bolts after them. “Meira!” Uncle Sam shouts, reaching out to try and grab her, but Meira’s played that game a million times, it’s _habit_ to flex her grace to give herself a little bit more speed so that she’s not where he expects her to be.

And this time, it works.

It’s such a relief she nearly stumbles, but she doesn’t have time to waste, so she catches her balance and runs on. She’s right behind Dad, and Roy is up ahead, and she can hear the wendigo in the trees. “It’s over here!” The wendigo calls with someone else’s voice, and Meira can _see it_ reaching for Roy. The world blurs as she lunges, practically tackling Roy out of the way just as the wendigo’s hands flash out and the claws sink into her face.

She could retaliate, she has her stick, but she remembers the thoughts that had been plaguing her earlier, and doesn’t.

The wendigo jerks her, hard, but Meira’s grace isn’t _gone_. It’s just trapped, which means that when her neck snaps, it’s nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Painful, sure, but her grace heals the damage almost as soon as it’s been done. The wendigo gives her another shake, nearly breaking her neck again, and then wrenches the burning stick away from her, tossing it back down to the ground. She lets it, because she doesn’t want to have to heal being _eaten_ , and then plays limp ragdoll as the wendigo darts off through the trees with her. It won’t fool it forever, but it should fool it long enough for it to take her back to its lair.

They drop back to the forest floor eventually, and then further down still, underground, Meira realises. A cave, or an abandoned mine, perhaps. She’s tossed into a larger cavern, lets herself roll limply along the floor, and the wendigo retreats. Meira’s just going to have to hope that her dad and uncle can keep Haley and Ben alive through the night.

“Ugh.” She groans and sits up, rubbing at the back of her neck. She’s human enough that that sort of damage is still unnerving, and leaves her feeling vaguely squeamish for hours afterwards. So worth it just to know her grace still _works_ , though.

“ _Holy shit!_ ”

Meira stills, looking around. The cavern is not, in fact, pitch black. There’s faint light seeping in from somewhere above her head, moonlight, and it’s just about enough for her to see by. There’s a man strung up from the rafters that looks enough like Haley and Ben that Meira feels pretty safe in guessing “Tommy Collins?”

“Yeah.” Tommy says breathlessly. “I thought you were _dead_.”

“That’s what I wanted it to think.” Meira tells him with a shrug, clambering to her feet and dusting herself off. “Now, let’s see if we can’t get you down.” She wishes, briefly but intensely, for her blade. It’s _right there_ , sitting inside her soul, and she _can’t manifest it_. Instead, she casts about for something in the cave that they’re in, and settles on a broken shard of rock from the floor of the cave. It worked for prehistoric people well enough.

“How- how’d you know who I am?” Tommy asks after Meira’s been sawing at the ropes for a few minutes. They’re starting to fray, finally, which is a relief.

“Your brother and sister have come looking for you.” Meira tells him. “Brought me and a couple others along with them.”

“Oh, god.” Tommy groans. “Are they okay?”

“Worried about you, but otherwise, yeah. Last I saw, anyway. And D- Dean and Sam know how to handle a wendigo. They’ll look after them, I promise.” Tommy lets out a shuddering breath, nodding to himself.

“I think this is backwards.” Tommy says in a tone of forced cheer. Meira hums curiously, scowling at the rope as she continues to work at it. “Well, the beautiful damsel is rescuing the handsome knight from the monster.” He points out.

Meira snorts her way into laughter, and leans back to get a better look at him. “You are cute.” She acknowledges, and in other circumstances, she might have flirted back, because she’s gotten the feeling that both Haley and Tommy are straight. “But your sister’s cuter.” She adds, going back to her work. The rope gives way before Tommy manages to muster up a response to that. He staggers when he drops, having been strung up for so long and deprived of sustenance that his balance is shot to shit. Meira catches him and slings one of his arms over her shoulder. “Do you know if your friends are still alive?” She asks him. There’s no one else in this cave, she doesn’t think, although she can’t be entirely sure of that with her grace locked down like this, but she’s pretty sure this won’t be the only place the wendigo has to stash its snacks.

She feels more than sees Tommy shake his head. “N-no, it-” He stammers out. “Oh god.” He says, and Meira recognises that tone well enough to shift the way she’s supporting him so that when he doubles over and retches, she doesn’t get covered in bile.

“Easy.” Meira soothes, rubbing a hand over his back. He dry heaves a few more times, but manages to regain control of himself after that. “Yeah, I can’t imagine watching something like that was any fun.” She muses, tugging him back upright and setting off. She hopes she can remember the way out. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“What about- about that thing?” Tommy asks her as they stagger along, into the first of several pitch-black tunnels.

“It’s almost certainly out in the woods right now, hunting the others.” Meira tells him, which she is aware is not as comforting as it could be, given that ‘the others’ includes family for both of them. Tommy swears, and Meira grimaces, figuring she can at least help a little bit. “Sam and Dean know how to handle something like this.” She assures him. “And they have plenty of fire. They’ll keep Haley and Ben safe. And I’m going to keep you safe.”

“In normal circumstances, that would sound ridiculous.” Tommy mutters.

“Don’t be sexist.” Meira chides, but she keeps her tone light, and gives him a gentle little jostle with her shoulder to let him know she’s mostly teasing. Then she sobers, because short of _actually_ eating her alive, which admittedly _is_ a possibility, the wendigo can’t kill her, but it could definitely kill Tommy, and if he’s going to play machismo bullshit because she’s a lady, she really does need to nip that in the bud. “But I’m serious. If it does come back, if we run into it, don’t you _dare_ try to play the hero, alright?” She puts a touch of divine command into her tone. “I am _not_ your responsibility, _do not_ wait for me, do not come back for me, do not try to throw yourself into harms way to protect me. Am I clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tommy mumbles, resentful and bewildered.

The rest of the slog out of the mines is made in silence, save for Tommy’s ragged breathing and Meira’s occasional curse when she makes a wrong turn and they have to double back. Finally, though, Meira picks out a hint of light and follows it to the exit. It looks like it might have been boarded up once, but the wendigo has made a neat little opening for itself, and she and Tommy stagger out into in the dim grey-blue light of false dawn.

Tommy chokes back a sob of relief. Meira grins at the sound and shifts him higher on her shoulder. “Come on, we don’t want to get caught here if it comes back.” She points out, and that convinces Tommy to pick up his pace. It’s still slow going, because he’s still pretty unhealthy after two days chained up in a cave with minimal sustenance. The wendigo probably wouldn’t have fed him, but they had been known to give captives water. They also have undergrowth to contend with now, and Meira might heal a broken ankle, but Tommy won’t.

“Where… are the others?” Tommy asks.

Which is a hell of a good question. “I have no idea.” Meira tells him, feigning cheer. “Right now our priorities are water and some way of making fire.” She informs him, and Tommy drags them to a stop.

Tommy clearly knows more about wilderness survival than she does, because within a few minutes of her pointing out a need for it, Tommy has somehow managed to get a small fire going. They’re still too close to the wendigo’s lair for Meira’s comfort, but having a weapon that might actually _do_ something to it is more important than trying to escape something that could outstrip a bullet. They build up a campfire, draw some protective sigils, and Meira fashions them both makeshift torches, wishing bitterly that she wasn’t reduced to such primitive tools all the while.

Meira risks leaving Tommy alone with the sigils to protect him long enough to see if she can find any hint of running water nearby. She does, so they relocate, going through the whole process of warding all over again, this time closer to the water. Tommy looks a lot better for the chance to drink and wash his face, and then they have to figure out what the hell to do next.

“Finding the others ought to be priority over killing the wendigo.” Meira muses. “There’s only the problem of how to actually go about that.”

Tommy nods grimly. “If it wasn’t for the monster out there that wants to eat us, I’d say set up a base camp, search outwards, leave signs.” He summarises. Meira is about to suggest that they should do exactly that, then, when a furious snarl echoes through the woods. Tommy flinches so hard he falls over where he’s sitting, only barely catching himself with one hand in the dirt.

“Think it noticed we’re missing?” Meira asks rhetorically.

They sit, tense and wary, in the ensuing silence, waiting for something to happen. It doesn’t for long enough that Meira begins to wonder if she should do something. Then the yelling starts. “Help! Help me!” Meira clenches her hands into fists, heart squeezing.

“You know that’s not going to work, right?” She calls, standing slowly and bringing two of their burning sticks with her, one in each hand. Tommy hisses at her, grabbing at the hem of her coat as if that might make her sit and stop baiting the monster. A snarl answers her words, echoing oddly as the wendigo moves mid-sound and the doppler effect turns it multi-toned. “What? Pissed because you couldn’t kill me? We’re pretty tough prey, I bet you’ve figured by now. All this exertion must be making you kinda hungry.”

The roar that follows shakes the forest, full of fury and malice, and Meira nearly giggles hysterically. She only has the barest idea of what she’s doing, and her hands are shaking with the terror of having a predator that’s bigger than her focused solely on her, but she knows, she knows from painful, bitter experience that making someone angry makes them sloppy in the short term. And any advantage she can wring out of this situation, she needs.

Tauntingly, she steps a little closer to the edge of the protective sigils. And there it is, sprinting too fast for the mortal eye to catch, close enough to make the underbrush rustle right next to where Meira is standing, but not quite close enough for her to hit with one of her torches. Meira doesn’t want to start a forest fire, but oh, boy, is she tempted right now. “Is that supposed to scare me?” She mocks.

The wendigo rushes by again, and then- _stops_. In plain view. Not even _looking at her_. Tommy makes a choked noise of horror, and the wendigo doesn’t even twitch. Meira is so tempted to lunge out of the sigils at it, but it’s _too easy_ , and she hesitates. She hesitates like an idiot until it’s suddenly gone, bounding off into the forest, and she realises what must have happened.

It heard something she couldn’t. Something that was easier prey.

“For fuck’s sake!” She explodes, and goes after it, even though it’s probably going to get her eaten.

“Hey! Hey, wait!” Tommy calls.

“Stay in the circle!” Meira calls over her shoulder. “If it comes back, set it on fire!”

The wendigo appears in front of her in an instant. Meira swings on instinct, a little too slow because she’s so off her game right now, but a little too slow is still something, because the flames pass by the wendigo’s emaciated flesh with inches to spare, and it must feel the heat, because it _shrieks_ , an awful, too human sound of pain. A huge clawed hand strikes out, and tears right through the sleeve of her leather coat and into the flesh beneath. “ _Shit!_ ” She curses, pained and indignant in equal measure, because if she’s guessing right about the limits on her abilities, she’s not going to be able to fix that.

“Meira?!” Uncle Sam’s voice shouts.

The wendigo ignores him, which means Meira succeeded in pissing it off. She ducks the second set of claws aiming for her throat, and then swings both torches up and in. They crash into either side of the wendigo’s head, and the smell of scorched flesh fills the forest just as Sam skids into view. The wendigo screams, rearing back and disappointingly _not dead_. Meira gears up for another swing, and the wendigo bolts. It’s gone in a flash, and Meira is about to go after it, to press her advantage, but then Uncle Sam is right in front of her, eyes wide. “Are you alright?” He demands, looking between her face and her arm.

“I’ll be fine.” Meira assures him, lowering her arms and hissing when the wound pulls. “My _jacket_ on the other hand…” She bitches, tugging at the shoulder to get a better look at the tears. She whines when she gets a proper look at the damage.

“You bitch-slapped a wendigo in the face with a medieval torch, and you’re upset about your _jacket_?” Sam asks incredulously.

Meira considers that. “I… huh. That _was_ pretty cool, wasn’t it?” Sam snorts, shaking his head like he genuinely can’t believe her. Meira grins, before the situation catches up with her, and she jerks her head back the way she came. “We should get behind the wards I set up if we’re going to catch up.”

Sam, though, shakes his head. “I’ve gotta-” He gestures after the wendigo. Meira is about to point out that running off half-cocked is going to get him dead, despite the disorientation of having to tell her _Uncle_ that, when he goes on. “It took Dean and Haley.”

Meira stares at him for a long moment, then tips her head back. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me!” She whines at the sky. “I just got Tommy out!”

“You got Tommy?” Sam echoes, brightening.

Meira nods, and realises there’s really only one thing for her to do. “I’ll wait with him while you go help the others?” She offers, and Sam nods once, sharp and decisive. Meira thrusts one of the torches at him. “Here. Take that.” Sam does, muttering a quick thanks before he’s rushing off again, and Meira goes back to sit with Tommy.

It’s not even half an hour later when she hears footsteps, people moving through the woods, and then the others appear through the trees, all of them in a straggly exhausted group. Haley and Ben both let out cries of relief when they see their brother, and stumble into a sort of run while Tommy clambers to his feet in order to embrace them.

“Wendigo’s dead?” Meira checks.

“Yeah.” Dean confirms. “Shot it point blank with a flaregun.” He adds proudly. Meira whistles, impressed. Dean grins back at her. “Heard you hit it in the face with a torch?” He asks, jerking his head at Sam to indicate exactly where he heard that. “Pretty awesome.”

Meira shrugs, grinning bashfully. “I did what I could.”

Then she realises that Roy is watching her very intently. He looks more than a little worse for wear, something a bit wild around his eyes that suggests he’s not taking the existence of the supernatural very well at all. “You’re alive.” He says when Meira catches his eye.

“Yeah.” Meira confirms.

Roy swallows. “Coulda sworn that thing broke your neck.” He says, all of a sudden not quite able to look at her and instead staring somewhere over her shoulder.

“Oh, man, it tried.” She replied, grinning in a strange, giddy relief at the memory of how easily her grace had healed her. “Shook me like a ragdoll. But I’m fine.” She adds to reassure him, because he still looks a bit haunted.

Roy nods. There’s a long pause, and then he clears his throat. “You saved my life. When I was being an idiot.” He adds briskly, grimacing at himself. “Thank you.”

Meira shrugs, smiling ruefully. “Just because you’re an asshole, doesn’t mean you deserve to die.”

Dean snorts in amusement at that, and interrupts before Roy can say anything else. It doesn’t look like he knows what to say in any case. “Come on, let’s get back to civilisation. I don’t know about any of you lot, but I’m getting a little sick of these woods.”

No one’s going to object to that, so they get themselves organised, and follow Roy’s recovered GPS out of the forest. Along the way they discuss what, exactly, to tell the authorities, getting their stories straight. Meira’s mostly quiet as they hike, trying to figure out what she’s going to do now. Ideally, she wants to stick with Dean and Sam, but she isn’t entirely sure how to go about inviting herself along. She knows from her dad’s stories that he and Uncle Sam had been kind of codependent when they were younger, and trying to insert herself into such a close-knit dynamic is going to difficult.

She still hasn’t come up with any good ideas when they get back to a road and call the paramedics. Then it’s all chaos as everyone asks questions and gets medical attention. Sam tries to point the paramedics at Meira, but Meira dodges them with the excuse that it was just a scratch, she’ll be fine. “Hey.” Someone says behind her, and she turns to find Haley standing there, looking exhausted and overwhelmed.

“Hey, you alright?” Meira checks, touching her lightly on the arm.

Haley nods. “Thanks to you.” Meira shakes her head, but Haley presses the point. “You saved Tommy. You saved my brother.”

Meira relents with a smile, and shifts her hand up to brush her knuckles lightly over Haley’s cheek. “I’m glad I could help.” She says sincerely. Haley huffs, smiling incredulously.

“You never let up, do you?” She asks.

Meira shrugs and retreats. “I do mean it.” She points out.

Haley considers her for a long moment, then nods. “Yeah, I got that.” She acknowledges. Then she glances over to where Dean is finally escaping the paramedics himself. “I should go and say thank you to them, too.” She says, and Meira nods, watching her go. She watches them talk for a moment, before an idea occurs to her, and she hurries off to pickpocket a ranger, talk to Roy, and then circle back around to Haley. She gets there in time to hear her say “Must you cheapen the moment?”

“Yeah.” Dean replies, as if it should be obvious.

Haley shakes her head, catches sight of Meira, and rolls her eyes. “The pair of you, I swear.” She huffs, and Meira grins. She’s heard it before, mostly from Qaada. Dad always protested that she’s way more like Pabbi, but given that the pair of them are the same flavour of irreverent flirt, she figures that’s one and the same.

Meira flips her stolen pen over in her fingers and proffers it to Haley. Haley takes it with a quizzical expression, while Meira shoves up her sleeve and presents her arm to her. “Gimme your number, and once I can get my hands on a new phone, I’ll text you.”

Haley narrows her eyes playfully. “And why should I?”

For once, Meira doesn’t rise to the bait. “Because then if you get into any other trouble, or if you see anything else weird, you can call me.” She explains. Haley’s eyes widen a little, and then she nods and scribbles a phone number onto Meira’s arm.

“Smooth.” Dean comments, half complimentary, half resentful, and Meira elbows him in retaliation. He elbows her back.

Haley shakes her head at both of them again, and then, surprising the hell out of Meira, she leans in and kisses them each on the cheek, Meira, and then Dean. “I hope you find your father.” She says to Dean, who sobers at that, and then Sam and Ben amble over and Haley guides Ben off to go to the hospital with their brother.

“You going to be alright getting home?” Dean asks, startling Meira out of watching the little family leave in the ambulance.

Meira winces, trying not to think too hard about exactly how far away from home she really is. Dean catches it and raises his eyebrows at her. Over his shoulder, Sam is frowning in concern. “Don’t really have one of those anymore.” She admits quietly, since it’s mostly true. She’s just muddling her tenses a little bit. She swallows and glances sideways at Dean. “Mind if I hitch a ride with you guys?”

Dean glances back at Sam, who shrugs. “Sure.” Dean says, a little uncertainly. “I guess.”

Relief makes Meira’s shoulders slump. “Thanks.”

“You really don’t have anywhere to go, huh?” Sam asks, sounding sympathetic.

Meira gives a slightly bitter laugh at that. “No, I don’t. It’s… it’s all gone.” She raises her arms a little in indication. “This is everything I have right now.”

“Shit.” Dean breathes. “What happened?”

“What always happens to hunters.” Meira hedges, tucking her hands into her pockets and hunching into her coat uncomfortably. It’s not even entirely a lie. “They missed one, and it came back to bite them.”

“Well, you can stick with us for a while.” Sam offers.

“Thanks. I don’t mind helping you look for your dad for a while as repayment.” Meira replies, and they both nod their acceptance. Then Dean tips his head towards the Impala, and Meira goes, aware of the pair of them following along behind her.

She’s pretty sure she’s not really meant to hear it when Dean says, in an undertone. “Sam, you know we’re going to find Dad, right?”

“Yeah, I know.” Sam agrees heavily. “But in the meantime… I’m driving.”

There’s a long pause, long enough for Meira to reach the back door of the Impala and turn to look at them. She’s just in time to see Dean flip the keys across to Sam, and she ducks her head on a smile. As long as she’s stuck here in the past, this is exactly where she wants to be; with her family.


	2. Broken Constellations

**Lake Manitoc, Wisconsin – Saturday 19 th  November 2005 **

The atmosphere in the car on the way to Lake Manitoc is oddly strained, but Meira knows better than to ask. Instead, she just settles in for a nap in the back seat. That’s how she’s been dealing with the utter surreality of travelling with these younger versions of her dad and uncle. She knew, in an intellectual sense, that their lives had been nomadic in the extreme before the apocalypse tried to happen, but it hadn’t really meant anything to her. Now it does. She doesn’t think she _could_ ever have appreciated what their lives had been like, if her grace hadn’t been bound under her skin.

The inability to move, the close confines of the car, and the snail’s pace of their progress make her twitchy. It’s not that she’s never spent any significant length of time in a car, because she has. This car, even. Her dad would take her and Jace on roadtrips sometimes, insisting on doing things the slow way for the experience, and Meira honestly loved it. But that had been when she knew she _could_ zip half way around the world if she wanted to. Now, she’s stuck, and the car makes that even more painfully obvious than it was already.

So she sleeps through most of the driving time, and spends her nights wandering around whatever town they’ve stopped in, looking for trouble. So far, she’s figured out that while she can move faster than baseline, she can’t push herself beyond what her human body can actually _do_. She’s very, very fast, but not, actually, super-human fast. Her senses are the same. They’re enhanced by her grace to excellent levels, but she cannot perceive anything that would take her grace to sense. And she can heal, but only herself.

“Hey, rise and shine, we’re almost there.” Dad calls, and Meira hauls herself up out of sleep reluctantly. A little scrubbing of her system with grace is almost as good as a strong cup of coffee, so by the time she sits up to peer out at their surroundings, she’s fully awake. Sam briefs her on the case they’re working as they head for the outskirts of the little town along a road that curls along the bank of the lake the town is named for. Something about it rings a bell for Meira, but she can’t put her finger on why. Probably her dad told her this story once.

They roll to a stop outside what Meira wants to describe as a cabin in the woods. It’s rustic and cute and conveniently close to the lake. They get out of the car, and Meira tugs her new coat back on after using it as a blanket for the last six hours. It’s a nice coat, dark green with an uneven hem, long in the back but short enough in the front to not trap her knees if she needs to run.

Dean knocks on the door, and it’s opened by a young man. “Will Carlton?” Dean guesses.

“Yeah, that’s right.” The boy replies, frowning faintly.

“I’m Agent Ford. These are Agents… Hamill and Fisher.” Dean introduces, and it takes effort for Meira to keep a straight face. She manages it, though, and nods professionally to the kid when he glances at her. “We’re with the US Wildlife Service.”

At their prompting, Will shows them down to the lake where his sister disappeared, and Meira is concerned to notice the boy’s father sitting out on the pier like he hasn’t moved in hours and isn’t planning to move for hours yet. When Sam asks about him, she’s relieved, although Will’s answer isn’t what she wanted to hear, but she nods anyway. “Listen, Mr Carlton.” She says, glancing over at his father again. “I think it would be best if you and your father stayed away from the lake until we know how this happened. Off the pier, away from the shore, not just out of the water itself, alright?” She warns him, and Will reflexively looks over his shoulder in alarm. “I understand you’re both grieving, but… for your own safety, and his.” She presses.

Will nods a little shakily. “Yeah, I- Yeah.”

Meira offers him a comforting smile, then follows Sam back to the car. A glance out of the rear window as Dean turns them around to head back into town shows Will heading down to the pier to speak to his father. Satisfied, Meira settles into her seat properly. “You think this thing can come out of the water?” Sam wonders.

“I have no idea.” Meira admits, wracking her memory. She thinks she remembers something about someone nearly drowning in their bath, which would suggest it is bound to water, but not necessarily to the lake itself. “But better safe than sorry, right?”

“Right.” Sam agrees. “So where to now?” He asks Dean.

“I’m thinking I want the low down on the rest of the drownings.” Dean says.

“Sheriff’s station?” Sam asks.

“Sheriff’s station.” Dean confirms.

Once they get there, Meira takes one look at the Sheriff and decides she’s going to keep her mouth shut. He looks like the sort not to take women very seriously, and she’s not going to give him any more chance to be condescending than he’s already got. Learning about the dam makes her wonder if it’s a pissed off nature spirit. They’re usually more likely to get upset about dams being _built_ than dams falling apart, honestly, but they’re averse to change in general, too, so if it got comfortable with the lake as it is, then it’s possible the dam breaking could have pissed it off.

She’s wondering if there’s something she can say to save them from the Sheriff’s suspicion about their lack of knowledge when they’re interrupted by a knock on the open door. “Sorry, am I interrupting?” The pretty, dark-haired woman standing in the doorway asks, and Sam and Dean both get to their feet. “I can come back later?” She offers.

“Gentlemen, this is my daughter.” The Sheriff informs them.

“Pleasure to meet you.” Dean says at once, offering his hand. “I’m Dean.”

“Andrea Barr, hi.”

Meira feels like all the wind has been knocked out of her, and it’s only made worse when _Lucas_ appears, hovering at his mother’s side. He looks _so young_. He’s a _child_. He can’t be more than seven years old, for crying out loud. He’s decades away from being the man who taught Meira how to play guitar. It’s weirdly jarring to see him practically flee the room without a word the moment there’s any attention on him at all, because the Lucas Meira knows isn’t shy at all. A little self-deprecating, maybe, but a social butterfly all the same.

At least now she knows why this case is so damn familiar to her. She loved the Batfam’s stories on how they got involved in hunting. She must have heard the story of the drowned boy in the lake and Lucas’s bond with him a dozen times or more. It leaves her with a dilemma that she’s too busy contemplating to cringe much over her dad’s incompetent flirting.

How much should she involve herself? It’s one thing to help fight a random wendigo on a hunt she doesn’t really remember her dad talking about all that much, but this? This is is a part of her own personal history, if only in a minor way. If she changes things, will she change who Lucas is in the future? She doesn’t want to do that to someone she loves, but at the same time, if she can spare him some measure of difficulty by getting this case solved faster, doesn’t she owe that to him?

“There it is.” Andrea interrupts her thoughts to point out, and Meira forces herself to focus on the here and now. “Like I said, two blocks.” She goes on, turning to Dean with a faintly condescending smile. “Must be hard, with your sense of direction; never being able to find your way to a decent pick up line.” She adds, and Meira bursts out laughing before she can stop herself.

“He’s got terrible manners, too.” She interjects before Andrea can leave, catching her attention and making her pause, an amused smile still dancing on her lips. “He neglected to introduce the rest of us.” Meira explains, holding out her hand, which Andrea laughingly takes. “I’m Meira, and this is Sam.” She introduces.

“Pleasure to meet you.” Andrea says lightly, and she really is astonishingly pretty.

Meira decides fuck it, and lifts Andrea’s hand to her mouth, kissing her knuckles lightly. “The pleasure is all mine, and I promise you I’ve got a better sense of direction than he has, too.” Meira goes so far as to drop a wink as she lets Andrea take her hand back. It makes her laugh, but she’s blushing just a little bit, too, as she turns and walks away.

“Dude, is this going to turn into a habit of yours?” Dean demands once Andrea is across the street, sounding incredibly put out. Meira is a little distracted by the fact that Andrea looks back at that moment, catches them watching her go, and shakes her head as she turns a corner and disappears from sight.

“Only when you make it _that easy_ to show you up.” Meira tells Dean chirpily.

“I was not that bad.” Dean protests indignantly.

Sam snorts. “‘Kids are the best’?” He quotes pointedly. “You don’t even like kids.”

Meira does a double take, because what? “I love kids!” Dean protests.

“Name three children that you even know.” Sam challenges.

Meira can list a round dozen people that her dad’s had a hand in raising or mentoring just off the top of her head, herself included. But of course, she realises with a twinge, that’s some forty years in the future, give or take, and right now, her dad is only a year or so older than her, and can’t think of a single one.

They get settled in their motel rooms, which for Meira consists of tossing her bag onto the bed in her single room, and then heading over to the room Sam and Dean are sharing to join in on the research. Or, at least, to pretend to join in the research while actually just looking for an excuse to give out what she already knows. She gets one opening when Sam starts complaining about the lack of eyewitnesses. “Whatever it is out there, no one’s living to talk about it.”

“Or maybe it’s not corporeal.” Meira pipes up.

Dean glances over from where he’s leaning over Sam’s shoulder. “Huh?”

Meira raises her eyebrows at him. “I mean, if no one’s seeing anything, then maybe there’s nothing _to_ see? Maybe it’s not a physical monster, but a pissed off spirit, instead.” Dean pulls a thoughtful face, glancing back at Sam’s laptop. He does a double take. “Wait, hold on, go back up a sec.” He orders, and presumably Sam obliges, because Dean leans in closer, squinting at the screen. “Barr. Christopher Barr. Where’ve I heard that name before?”

“Christopher Barr was the victim in May…”

Meira clears her throat. “Andrea’s last name is Barr. Married name, cause her dad’s last name is Devins.” She says quietly.

“Oh.” Sam says, and then again. “Oh. Apparently,” he begins heavily, “Christopher drowned when he and Lucas were out swimming. Lucas was on a floating platform for two hours before he got rescued.” There’s a long, heavy silence in the room as Sam and Dean process that horror. Meira stays quiet out of respect. Sam sighs deeply. “Maybe we have an eyewitness after all.”

“No wonder that kid was so freaked out. Watching one of your parents die isn’t something you just get over.” Dean announces.

Meira has to look away at that one. She’s been lucky in that respect. She knows, intellectually, that her parents aren’t actually indestructible, but they do a damn good impression of it. They _did_ a damn good impression of it, she corrects the thought bitterly, because it’s the past tense for her, even if it should be the future tense for the timeline. Now, she has no idea if she’ll ever see her parents again. Her dad’s standing not five feet away from her, but, as the whole question about kids showed, he’s not really her dad yet. That’s still another decade off, at least.

It takes a while to find Lucas and Andrea again, but eventually they spot them at the park and head over. “Can we join you?” Sam asks.

Andrea looks a little exasperated to see them. “I’m here with my son.” She tells them in a way that definitely registers as a very subtle ‘no’ to Meira’s ears. Dean completely ignores the subtext.

“Oh, mind if I say hi?” He asks, and doesn’t actually wait for an answer before heading off towards Lucas. Meira watches him go with a fond smile, feeling inexplicably honoured to be able to see this for herself. She wouldn’t quite call Lucas a sort of brother, she had Ben and Claire for that, but maybe something like it, and this is how he came to be part of their wacky patchwork family.

“Tell your friend this whole Jerry McGuire thing’s not going to work on me.” Andrea says dryly, capturing Meira’s attention again. She shakes her head a little, and claims a seat next to Andrea. Andrea, who is not quite looking at her straight on.

“I don’t think that’s what this is about.” Sam says gently.

“He’s kind of like Batman.” Meira says, because she just can’t help herself. Both Andrea and Sam look at her with their eyebrows raised. “He tries to do the whole macho-man thing and pretend he doesn’t care, but if he actually had the space, his home’d be as full of kids and sidekicks as Wayne Manor.” Meira declares.

“He’d be delighted by that comparison.” Sam mutters, shaking his head.

Andrea huffs and looks away, staring across the park at where Dean is crouching beside the little bench that Lucas is drawing at. “And who does that make you?” She asks finally, looking back at Meira. “Catwoman?”

Meira beams at the opening she’s just been given. “I can be Harley Quinn, if you’ll be my Poison Ivy.” She offers, leaning an arm on the back of the bench so her whole body is angled towards Andrea.

“I thought Harley was with the Joker.” Andrea says uncertainly.

“If you missed all the homoerotic subtext, I’d be happy to show it to you.” Meira replies, leaning in and raising her eyebrows pointedly. Andrea laughs a little incredulously and looks away. Meira backs off a little, tipping her head to see the other woman’s expression better. She doesn’t look uncomfortable, exactly, just uncertain, and, oh, boy, the way she looks sideways at Meira from under her lashes is _lethal_.

“All this just to show up your friend?” Andrea asks dryly.

Meira laughs. “While I’ll admit that watching him pout is funny, no. All this is just to see if I can make you happy for a little while.”

Andrea looks away again and sighs. “I don’t know that I’m ready for that yet.” She admits.

“Okay.” Meira says simply. Andrea looks at her, eyebrows raised, and Meira smiles back. “I can take no for an answer.” She says, then cocks her head curiously. “But, can I ask… ‘yet’?”

Andrea tells them the story, haltingly, of her husband’s death. There’s not much in there that’s relevant to their case, but Meira listens attentively anyway, and Andrea responds to it, spilling out more of her struggles than Meira suspects she would normally mean to, when talking to strangers. “-and Lucas hasn’t said a word since, not even to me.” She’s saying when Dean returns. She glances at him, but then looks back to Meira.

“That’s gotta be hard.” Meira acknowledges. Andrea shrugs that off, clearly trying to reign her emotions back in a little. She’s not crying, but she wipes at her eyes anyway as though she feels like she’s about to.

“We moved in with my dad.” She says, not quite changing the subject, but refusing to dwell too much on the negatives. “He helps out a lot.” She looks over at Lucas, and her expression falls again. “It’s just… when I think about what Lucas went through, what he saw…”

“Kids are strong.” Dean says, after sharing a look with Sam. “You’d be surprised what they can deal with.”

“You know, he used to have such life. He was hard to keep up with, to tell you the truth.” Andrea says with a self-deprecating little laugh and a smile that’s edged in pain. Meira puts a hand on her arm on instinct, reaching out to comfort. Andrea glances at her hand, meets her gaze, and softens a little.

“It’s still there, you know.” Meira tells her, making Andrea’s eyebrows quirk in confusion. “It’s not gone, just buried. He’ll find it again, one day, when he’s ready.”

Andrea gives a little laugh that’s almost a sob, and wipes at her eyes again. “Thank you. I think I-” She stops, her entire attention taken up by the fact that Lucas has walked over to join them. “Hey, sweetie.” Andrea greets, leaning forward where she’s sitting. Lucas doesn’t look at her, or anyone, just comes to a stop beside Dean and holds up a sheet of paper with a drawing of a house on it.

“Thanks.” Dean says, taking it. “Thanks, Lucas.”

Lucas turns and goes back to the little bench he claimed. Andrea watches him go and then turns to stare at Dean like he might be a miracle. Meira would be entertained by that, except she’s distracted by the picture. She remembers what Lucas had said about this, about how he’d tried to warn Sam and Dean about where the spirit was going to strike next, how they’d missed it because kiddie art wasn’t exactly the most efficient medium for dire warnings.

Getting to her feet, Meira turns to Andrea. “I’m glad we ran into you.” She says, as if it had been a happy coincidence. Andrea gets up, too, still looking a little baffled.

“Yes, it was… it was good talking with you.” Andrea says, as though she’s surprised to find it’s actually true. Sam and Dean murmur their own goodbyes, and the three of them turn to go. Meira’s stalled however, when Andrea catches her wrist. She turns back, and is entirely startled and flustered when the woman leans forward to press a kiss to her cheek, too close to the corner of her mouth to be mistaken for platonic. “I didn’t say no.” She says quietly.

Feeling ridiculously giddy, Meira turns her hand in Andrea’s grip to squeeze her fingers gently, and then lifts her hand to Meira’s lips again. “I’m glad.” She murmurs against her skin, and then lets go. Andrea huffs a breathless, disbelieving laugh and curls her other hand over the one Meira kissed as Meira goes to catch up with Sam and Dean.

“Dude, what the fuck.” Dean grouses once they’re well away from the park. “It’s not like she’s a lesbian. She was married to a man.”

Meira snorts. “Bisexuality is a thing, you know.”

“Yeah, but…” Dean protests, shifting uncomfortably.

“So is heteronormativity.”

“What?” Dean questions, squinting at her.

“She means that sometimes lesbians marry men because they’ve been conditioned to believe it’s the only option.” Sam translates. Meira holds up her hand for a fist-bump, and Sam gives her an incredulous look, but then obliges.

“And sometimes bisexual men make a reputation for themselves as lady-killers because it’s the more acceptable option.” Meira adds before she can help herself. Dean gives her a sharp, almost panicked look that’s edging swiftly towards outright anger, so Meira quickly dodges the implication she just made. “Like James Bond.”

Dean does a double take. “What the hell?” He demands. “Since when?!”

“Oh, come on. He went to _Fettes_ when it was still an all-boys school.” Meira protests. The ensuing argument carries them all the way back to the motel, with Sam watching them with baffled amusement and occasionally chipping in on one side or the other whenever it seems like they might be winding down and agreeing to disagree. By silent agreement, though, they leave the petty bickering at the door when they head into Sam and Dean’s motel room, putting it aside in favour of more serious topics.

“So what now?” Sam asks.

“I have no idea.” Dean admits. “Lucas was kind of a bust.” He acknowledges, then grimaces. “I mean, when I asked him to draw me a picture of what he saw in the lake, he drew a house. I’m pretty sure there’s not a man-eating house in the lake.” Sam snorts his agreement.

“Can I see it?” Meira asks.

Dean hesitates a moment, then shrugs and pulls the folded paper out of his jacket pocket and hands it over. Meira carefully unfolds it and studies it, smiling faintly despite herself as she wonders what happened to this picture in the future. “Is it just me…” She asks slowly, carefully. “Or does this look kind of like the Carlton house?”

“What?” Sam and Dean ask in unison, both of them crowding in to look at the picture over Meira’s shoulders. “You think?” Dean asks, squinting.

“I can see it.” Sam confirms. “I mean, it’s not exact, but…” He straightens abruptly, reaching over for his laptop and tapping rapidly for several minutes. “Okay, get this.” He says grimly, looking up at Meira and Dean. “Christopher Barr was Bill Carlton’s godson.”

“So you think maybe this has something to do with Carlton?” Dean challenges. “That’s only two out of, what, nine? Ten victims?”

“It’s _something_.” Sam counters. “And for all we know, Will Carlton could be next.”

Dean groans. “Ugh, that means stake out.” He complains.

Sam pulls a face. “Yeah, but… better safe than sorry. Right?” He prompts, with a glance at Meira, who nods her agreement. So they load up on coffee and grab take-out for an early dinner, and then settle in to stalk the Carltons.

As night falls, Meira takes a moment to resent the hell out of whatever was done to seal her grace. If she’d had full use of her abilities, she’d _know_ the moment the ghost struck, but as she is now, all she can do is focus on her hearing, since their only visuals are through a few relatively small and curtained windows. They’ve each taken position on various sides of the house, and Meira chose to hide next to a little wood storage on the back porch, so that she’s close enough to hear things from inside the house.

She’s meditating when she hears the pipes groan and clank as someone turns on the water inside, and she tenses, but hears nothing else. Rising to a crouch, she shuffles along to see if she can see anything through the nearest window, but no one’s in view. And then, after interminable seconds of uncertainty, a clank, and several almost frantic thumps. She doesn’t wait any longer than that.

Meira kicks the back door in and darts inside to see Will Carlton face down in the kitchen sink and flailing desperately to free himself. She drops the shotgun full of salt rounds Dean loaned her and lunges forward to grab Will and haul him back. She gets his face clear on the first heave, and he gasps and sputters, but then the ghost retaliates, made stronger in its fury at being denied, and Will goes under again.

“Sam! Dean!” Meira shouts, getting her arms around Will, bracing one foot against the cabinet and hauling Will up and away with all her strength. He comes, but Meira has to fight for every inch. Bill Carlton staggers into the room moments before Dean skids in through the back door.

“What the-?!” Bill demands, but Dean ignores him in favour of grabbing Will’s shoulders and adding his strength to Meira’s. They get his face clear, and he begins coughing as Dean hooks his arm around the one still being dragged into the water and yanks. The ghost relinquishes Will all at once and the three of them go down in a heap.

Sam appears in the doorway then, looks between them and the murky lake water still slowly draining out of the sink, and says dryly; “I think it’s safe to say we can rule out Nessie, then.”

* * *

**Lake Manitoc, Wisconsin – Sunday 20 th  November 2005 **

Their first stop the next day is Sheriff Devins’ house, thankfully after the man himself has left for work. Andrea opens the door with a smile that’s more incredulous than anything. “You again.” She says, but she lets them in.

“Us again.” Dean confirms as they all step inside. Convincing Andrea to let them, or rather to let _Dean_ , talk to Lucas goes a lot easier than Meira was expecting it to. She’s clearly unnerved by what’s been going on in the town, and even though she wants to believe it’s entirely ordinary bad luck, she also doubts, somewhere in the back of her mind.

Meira wonders if Lucas inherited his latent mediumship from his mother. If she’s one of those people who never realised that their intuition was not, actually, normal. When Lucas gives Dean the picture, Meira’s once again struck by the privilege of being here to witness this. She feels kind of stupidly proud of her dad, right then.

As they’re leaving, she hesitates in the doorway, and then asks, “Hey, guys, can you give me five minutes?”

They both look at her knowingly, and Meira lets them think whatever they want. Dean snorts. “Yeah, sure. Five minutes.” He agrees, waving her off with a sort of resigned acceptance. Meira steps back and lets the door fall shut behind her as she faces Andrea. She’s blushing and not quite meeting Meira’s eyes, but she can’t hide the beginnings of a smile, either.

Right then, Meira really wishes she could see this woman’s soul. She’s got a feeling it would be beautiful. “Hey,” She says softly, reaching up to brush a strand of hair off Andrea’s cheek. Andrea looks at her properly, curious. “Please be careful.”

Andrea blinks. That’s clearly not what she was expecting. “What?”

“I know that you know, somewhere in your gut, that these aren’t just random accidental drownings.” Meira explains. Andrea presses her lips into a thin line, brows knotting. “There’s more to this than meets the eye.”

Andrea shakes her head, but it’s less of a denial and more disbelief that she can’t deny it. “What’s going on?” She asks shakily.

“Best guess?” Meira says wryly, because her best guess is foreknowledge, which makes it pretty damn certain. “I think it’s a pissed off ghost.” Andrea mouths the word ‘ghost’ in disbelief. “And right now I think it’s focused on the Carltons, but I don’t know how long that will last.”

“You’re not really from the Wildlife Service, are you?” Andrea asks on a laugh.

“Depends what sort of wildlife you’re talking about.” Meira replies lightly, and Andrea laughs again. “We’ll sort this out, Andrea, I promise you, but until we do, be careful. Try not to go near the lake, or any water that comes from the lake, okay?”

Andrea nods. “Is… Does this ghost have anything to do with… with why Lucas has been so…?” She trails off helplessly, but Meira understands what she means.

“Yes and no.” Meira hedges. Andreas eyes narrow dangerously, and it warms Meira through to see it. “I don’t have time to explain right now, but cliff notes version: No, he’s been quiet and withdrawn because he was traumatised. Yes, because not all of that trauma was his own.”

Andrea closes her eyes for a moment, then nods. “You’ll explain the rest of that later.” She instructs.

“Yes, ma’am.” Meira agrees crisply.

That makes Andrea laugh again, a mixture of relief and genuine amusement. The humour fades slowly, and she cups Meira’s cheek in her hand. “You be careful, too.” She adds, and Meira nods, and then Andrea kisses her. Meira is caught off guard, because she’d thought it would take longer for Andrea to stop hesitating, but then, the threat of imminent death by ghost could shatter a lot of inhibitions, she supposes. The kiss is brief, but sweet, and when Andrea draws back, she doesn’t go far. “I’ve never done that before.” She admits, voice a little shaky.

Since she’s obviously not talking about kissing, Meira assumes it’s her gender that’s the issue here, and it makes her grin like a devil. “Maybe this was a bad idea then.” She muses innocently. “After all, if you _start_ with me, you’ll be doomed to eternal disappointment with every other woman you kiss.”

Andrea laughs incredulously, shoving Meira playfully back. “That arrogance shouldn’t be nearly as charming as it is.” She states.

Meira winks at her as she turns towards the door. “It’s only charming because it’s not arrogance.” She points out, and glances back to see Andrea rolling her eyes. Glad that she’s leaving her on a high note, instead of mired in worry and fear, Meira steps out and closes the door behind her before jogging back to the Impala.

“Enjoy yourself?” Dean snarks.

“Immensely.” Meira replies, being deliberately obnoxious about it. If she ever figures out how to undo what was done to her and get home, Lucas is going to kick her ass so hard for seducing his mom, and it’s going to be hilarious.

Dean makes a disgusted noise that sounds so much like how her dad would respond if she started gloating about sexual conquests, meaning he sounds reluctantly impressed but also like he really doesn’t want to know why she sounds so smug, that Meira feels almost like she could be home. She sprawls out in the back seat as Dean pulls out onto the road, and relaxes through their search for a church that matches the one in Lucas’s drawing.

They find it, and hear a story that Meira already knew, and head back to the Carltons’ house to confront Bill. “Mr Carlton?!” Sam calls, and after barely a moment, the door is opened by Will, looking worried.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, eyes flicking between them, and then over their heads. Meira registers the sound of a motorboat just as Will shouts “Dad!”

They take off running, and Meira’s brief respite dissolves under the bitter frustration of knowing that if she could just _fly_ , she could save the stupid, undeserving bastard, but without that, she can’t imagine they’ll reach him in time. He’s in a god damned motorboat, and they’d be reduced to swimming.

They reach the end of the pier just in time to watch the pieces of Bill Carlton’s boat go flying as if a massive fist had punched it up off the water. Bill’s body hits the water, sinks, and vanishes without a trace. Meira takes a moment to pray to her grandfather that the asshole finds redemption in heaven, and gets the lecture about abandoning his son that he deserves.

Then she turns without a word, walks back up the pier to where Will has skidded to a stop in horror, and pulls him into a hug. “I’m sorry.” She says quietly, as he shudders with shock and horror in her arms. “Loosing a parent sucks balls.”

He chokes on something that might have been a laugh, and breaks down on her shoulder.

Some neighbour calls the police, and then there’s organised chaos as they’re all questioned and they start organising a search for Bill’s body and they’re relocated to the police station. Meira sticks close to Will, because she knows how disorienting it can be to suddenly find yourself entirely alone in the world, with no family left to rely on. Sheriff Devins gives her a sour look when she entirely ignores his efforts to separate them, but doesn’t actively protest.

“So, I really don’t think you should be alone tonight.” Meira tells Will as they’re walking into the police station. He gives her a tired look. “Do you have a friend you could stay with? Extended family?” Meira prompts. Will swallows a couple of times before he manages to nod and pulls out his phone with shaking hands. “Oh, hey.” Meira says, reminded. “Let me give you my number, so that if anything else happens, anything weird, you can call me.”

Will hands over his phone, and barely manages a shaky smile when Meira hands it back. “Thanks.” He says, voice a little rusty. He goes about calling one of his friends, but Meira doesn’t hear more than the slightly broken “Hey…” before her attention is distracted by a commotion starting up on the other side of the station.

When she realises it’s Lucas, she heads over without a second thought. Dean is making soothing noises that remind Meira of every single time she woke up from a nightmare as a child, and Lucas eventually lets go of his arm, but doesn’t look any less frightened. Andrea looks over when Meira leans over the railing that splits the room in two, and Meira can see the same fear reflected in her eyes. “You’re afraid it’s not gonna stop, huh?” She asks Lucas sympathetically.

He won’t look at her at all, but he nods at the floor, emphatic. Meira glances pointedly at Sam and Dean, who catch her gaze, and then share their own meaningful look, complete with grimaces. Dean opens his mouth, a hard, determined look falling over his face, but before he can get a word out, Sheriff Devins interrupts. “Alright, that’s enough. You three, my office, _now_.” He orders, jabbing a finger at each of them in turn, and then marching into his office with every expectation of being obeyed.

Irritated and helpless, they follow. Meira puts a comforting hand on Andrea’s shoulder as she passes her, and is surprised when Andrea’s expression hardens, and she follows them, an arm around Lucas’s shoulders. The Sheriff doesn’t look too pleased to see his daughter still there, but when Andrea pointedly closes the office door behind herself, he gives up with a roll of his eyes, and rounds on the rest of them. “You three are damn lucky that Will Carlton and one of his neighbours stated very clearly that they saw Bill Carlton steering out that boat all by himself, or I’d have you all arrested on suspicion of murder.”

“Dad…!” Andrea begins to protest, only to be cut off and practically ignored by her father.

“Oh, and lets not forget impersonating government officials, too.” Sheriff Devins adds coolly. “That’s right. I checked. The department’s never heard of you three.”

“See, now, we can explain that-” Dean begins, but Sheriff Devins cuts him off, too.

“Enough.” The Sheriff says, sounding entirely done with the entire situation. “You’re in enough trouble without digging yourself a deeper hole here.” He pauses to make sure they’re all paying attention, then nods. “So, we have a couple of options here. I can arrest you for impersonating government officials and hold you as material witnesses to Bill Carlton’s disappearance, _or_ we chalk this all up to a bad day, you get into your car, you put this town in your rear view mirror, and you don’t ever darken my doorstep again.” By the end, his voice is a snarl, and his expression is thunderous.

“Dad!” Andrea protests again, but her father holds up a finger to silence her, and Meira loses her temper entirely without warning.

She steps forward from her slouch against the wall, feeling her grace thrumming under her skin in a way that’s bordering on painful. “You have no right to condemn us for investigating the murders _you’ve_ been ignoring.” She states coldly.

Sheriff Devins turns to her in outrage. “I am the _Sheriff_ of this town, and I have every right-!”

“‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.’” Meira quotes, because it’s the closest she can get to what she really wants to say, which is ‘I’m a motherfucking archangel you supercilious dick’. “Are you without sin, _Sheriff_?” She asks evenly. “Can you look me in the eye and tell me you’ve never broken the law? Never lied about who you are, or what you did?”

Sheriff Devins meets her judging stare with an incredulous one of his own, leaning back and crossing his arms as if to emphasis how unimpressed he is, but all Meira sees is defensiveness. “And that’s supposed to be your justification, is it?” He scoffs. “I’m sure everyone does it, so it’s fine if I do?”

“No. I’m merely asking you if you really want to go throwing stones at us when your house is made of glass.” Meira replies, making Sheriff Devins frown. “We are going to stay, _Sheriff_ , until we’re certain your town is safe from this threat. You don’t want to try and make us leave again.”

“Is that a threat?” Sheriff Devins demands, standing up straight and unfolding his arms.

“It’s a warning.” Meira replies levelly.

“Alright, that’s it.” Sheriff Devins declares, reaching for handcuffs. Everyone bursts out into protestations, Andrea going so far as to step half way in between the two of them, hands up in a pacifying gesture.

Well, he asked for it. “What did you do with the red bike?”

Sheriff Devins recoils like Meira slapped him, and everyone else falls silent abruptly. Sam and Dean look from her to the Sheriff and back again, understanding beginning to dawn in their eyes. “What are you talking about?” Sheriff Devins demands, but his voice has gone brittle, not the confident bark he clearly wishes it was.

“The thing in the lake tried to kill all of Bill Carlton’s family.” Meira tells him serenely. “Are you willing to risk it coming after yours, too?”

Sheriff Devins looks frightened for all of a second before a black scowl wipes the fear away. “There isn’t anything in the lake.” He denies furiously. “And _you_ are under arrest for-”

“Dad! _Stop it!_ ” Andrea interrupts, high and sharp, and angry enough that it catches her father entirely off guard. “You’re not going to arrest any of them.” She announces firmly.

“Andrea…?” Sheriff Devins says, too bewildered to be angry.

“Meira owes me dinner.” Andrea declares. “And Sam and Dean are babysitting.” She pauses, and then looks down at Lucas. “If that’s alright with you, Lucas?” She checks, and Lucas nods emphatically at the floor again. Andrea nods and looks back at her father. “I don’t know what’s going on, but _something_ is, and so far, they’re the only ones who seem to know what.”

“How could they? They haven’t been here three days!” Sheriff Devins protests.

Andrea opens her mouth, and then falters. “I don’t know, Dad.” She admits finally, some of her angry steel abandoning her at the confession. “But I at least want to hear what they have to say. Before anyone else gets hurt.”

For a long moment, it looks like Sheriff Devins might keep pushing, but then he looks away sharply. “Fine.” He snaps out. Andrea flinches a little at his tone. “You three get out of my office.” He adds, glowering at them.

“Yes, sir.” Dean says wryly. “C’mon, Sam.”

Andrea and Lucas accompany them out of the Sheriff’s station, and once they’re standing on the steps, Andrea lets out a shaky sigh. “You owe me an explanation.” She tells Meira.

“What the hell was that in there?” Dean asks at almost the same moment, rounding on Meira.

“What was what?”

“The thing about the bike? Where did you get that from?” Dean presses.

“You meant Peter’s bike, didn’t you?” Sam adds, staring intently at her. “The one from Lucas’s pictures.”

Meira nods, and looks away, thinking about how she can put the pieces together to make her leap of logic sound plausible. “Lucas was scared.” She says slowly. She glances down at him and smiles wryly. “ _Is_ scared.” She corrects, and the boy in question half-glances in her general direction and then looks away sharply. “He wouldn’t be if Peter got what he wanted, if he was done. So, someone else is next, and who could it be that would scare Lucas _that much_?” She asks pointedly.

In unison, Sam and Dean turn to stare at Andrea. She stares back, wide-eyed. “Peter didn’t just go after the one responsible.” Sam says in a tone of revelation. “He went after Carlton’s _kids_ first. His godson.” He nods slowly, and then looks back at the Sheriff’s station. “What’s the betting Sheriff Devins is an old school friend of Mr Carlton’s?”

“They- they were.” Andrea says, looking between them with wide eyes as she tugs Lucas a little closer to her side. He goes without complaint, hiding his face against her hip. “They practically grew up together.”

“Why don’t we talk about this someplace else?” Dean suggests suddenly. Meira follows his gaze, and sees Sheriff Devins scowling at them from his office window.

“Good idea. Did you mean what you said in there?” Meira asks Andrea as they set off down the sidewalk. Andrea raises her eyebrows. “Asking me to dinner.” She teases, and then sobers a little. “I don’t mind if you’d rather we all stick together for now.”

Andrea opens her mouth, and then hesitates, looking over at Sam and Dean, and then down to Lucas. “I…” She draws in a breath. “No, I trust you to look after my son.” She says, mostly to Dean. “Lucas trusts you, and I’ll trust him.”

“I promise you, I won’t let anything happen to him.” Dean swears, meaning every word. Andrea smiles gratefully at him.

“So what do you say, Lucas?” Sam says, holding out a hand to the boy. “I saw an art shop not too far from here, we can get you some more crayons.” He offers. Lucas peeks out at him, looks over at Dean, who grins and jerks his head down the road in invitation.

Lucas glances back at his mom, and Meira crouches down to talk to him on his level. Lucas still won’t look at her, but Meira doesn’t take it personally. “And I promise, Lucas, that I won’t let anything happen to your mom, either.” Meira swears. Lucas nods at the floor, turns to give his mom a hug, and then goes to cling to Dean’s side instead.

They go separate ways then, Sam and Dean taking Lucas off to shop for art supplies, and Meira and Andrea ambling off in the opposite direction. “You’re more familiar with good places to eat around here than me, so you pick the place, and I’ll pick up the bill.” Meira offers. “Just not a Chinese place.” She adds with a wrinkle of her nose.

“You don’t like Chinese?” Andrea asks incredulously.

Meira chuckles. “No, I do.” She assures her. “But when I was a kid, my pabbi took me to China once just for proper Chinese food, and trust me, you’d never look back, either. American Chinese food is way too greasy.” She sticks her tongue out in exaggerated disgust, and Andrea laughs at her.

“Your… pabbi?” She asks uncertainly.

“It means dad in Icelandic.” Meira explains.

“Oh. Your dad is Icelandic?”

Meira chuckles and shakes her head. “No. Pabbi lived there for basically forever, but Dad is- Dad was American, born and bred.” She says, and then glances over at Andrea to watch the understanding dawn.

“Oh.” She breathes, looking faintly embarrassed. “So you, you have two dads?”

“Technically, I have three.” Meira corrects, grinning. “But don’t ask me where Qaada came from. You wouldn’t believe me.”

Andrea opens her mouth, pauses to consider, and visibly changes her mind about what to ask. “Alright. What about your mother?”

Meira shrugs, then tucks her hands into her pockets idly. “Don’t have one. At least, not that matters.” If one wanted to be literal about such things, Dad was her mother, but she’s pretty sure that his ego couldn’t handle being emasculated by having her say it out loud.

“Oh.” Andrea says again. “That must have made for an… interesting childhood.” She muses, and then winces. “I don’t mean to sound judgemental, I’m just… finding it hard to imagine.” She explains with an awkward laugh and an apologetic glance.

“Nah, you’re alright. I’ve seen judgemental, and you’re not it.” Meira assures her. “And it was… It was a childhood like anyone else’s really.” She reminisces a little about her childhood as Andrea leads them to a simple restaurant, and then the conversation lapses in favour of ordering.

“So.” Andrea says once the waiter has gone off with their orders. “That explanation you owe me.” She states, almost challenging, and Meira obliges by telling her about Peter Sweeney and his disappearance. Andrea pales when she catches on to the implication of what her father did. “Dad wouldn’t have…” She trails off under Meira’s sorrowful but uncompromising stare. “You really think he…?”

“Yeah.” Meira confirms gently.

Andrea covers her mouth with her hand, and Meira lets her absorb that in silence. Their food arrives, and they start eating, although Andrea is more playing with her food than actually eating it. “Why didn’t it- _he_ take Lucas, too?” She asks abruptly. “He was out there for _two hours_ , and if Dad really- why didn’t he-?”

“Short answer?” Meira muses. “Lucas is a medium.”

“A medium.” Andrea repeats flatly.

Meira nods. “Long answer… I’m not sure which came first, to be honest. Either Lucas was born that way, and when the ghost tried to take him, he tried to reach out to it to stop it, and created a psychic link between them, or his situation was similar enough to the ghosts that the ghost was the one to create the bond, and that’s why Lucas is a medium.” Meira shrugs. “It could be either. Do you know if you have any mediums or psychics in your family tree?”

Andrea shakes her head, mouth slightly open in bewilderment. “I don’t… No. What does that mean? Is this going to keep happening to him?”

Meira tipped her head to one side, considering. “That depends what you mean by ‘this’. He’s always going to be sensitive to ghosts, yes, but in time, he’ll learn how to keep some distance between himself and them, so it shouldn’t disturb him as much, in the future.”

The rest of the meal goes by in a blur, with Andrea quizzing Meira up one side and down the other about mediums, ghosts, souls, and further variations on how and who and what. Meira enjoys the chance to flex her knowledge without having to censor herself. Andrea doesn’t care _how_ she knows all this, not like Sam and Dean would. She just wants to know how to help her son, and Meira is more than happy to give her that.

The cheque comes, and Meira’s picked enough pockets in the last week that she doesn’t even worry about the price, tipping generously, and then offering Andrea her arm as they head at a leisurely pace towards the motel. “You know this all sounds insane, right?” Andrea asks as they walk.

“But you believe me.” Meira replies lightly.

Andrea opens her mouth, and then falters. “I- Yes, I guess I do. I don’t know why.” She admits with a small laugh, shaking her head at herself. “Maybe I just want there to be some sort of… explanation for what happened to Chris.”

“He’s at peace, you know.” Meira offers, making Andrea startle, and stare at her with wide eyes. “If he wasn’t, I’m pretty sure you and Lucas would be the first to know about it.” Andrea nods slowly. “I don’t want to sound trite, but…” Meira wobbles her head back and forth, and Andrea huffs softly.

“He’s in a better place?” Andrea challenges wryly.

“Eh.” Meira says, noncommittal. “Heaven’s not _that_ great.” Andrea bursts out laughing, and Meira smiles despite herself. “Heaven is… it’s peaceful, sure, but it’s kind of boring. Repetitive. Life is better, even when it hurts.”

Andrea stops walking, and Meira turns to face her, a little worried that she’s upset her, but Andrea is smiling, and it doesn’t look like a cover for pain. Then she leans in and kisses her, and Meira stops thinking about anything else. Andrea pulls her in closer, licking past her lips, and Meira goes with it, getting her hands in Andrea’s hair like she’s wanted to since their last kiss.

It takes a while, before they come up for air. “What was that for?” Meira asks breathlessly.

“For not telling me I should be glad he’s dead.” Andrea says simply. Her smile looks like it hurts, but there’s something bright in her eyes that makes Meira think it’s not insincere. “Because life is better.” Meira echoes her smile knowingly, and wordlessly, they continue on to the motel.

Going into Sam and Dean’s room reveals one very mud-splattered Sam, a dripping wet Dean, and a somewhat dryer Lucas with a towel over his head. Meira snickers at them, and is already three steps into the room when she realises that Andrea has stopped dead in the doorway. “Why are you wet?” She asks in a carefully even tone that catches everyone’s attention.

“Uh, well…” Sam begins, and then looks over at Dean desperately.

“Lucas found Peter’s bike.” Dean begins briskly. “So we figured, since his body’s probably in the lake, we’d try salting and burning the bike to see if that’d get rid of him. It didn’t, and Peter, uh, took exception to what we were doing.”

“You promised me you’d keep Lucas safe!” Andrea bursts out, belated terror turning her pale.

“They did!” Lucas interrupts, voice almost whisper-quiet, but emphatic.

Andrea braces herself on the doorjamb, staring at her son. “Lucas?” She asks, starting to smile, but still too worried and uncertain to put any effort into it. Lucas hops up from where he was sitting on one of the beds, and walks over, edging around Meira carefully, before grabbing hold of the hand his mom holds out to him. “You’re talking.” Andrea says softly.

“Yeah. It’s… it’s better now.” Lucas offers uncertainly, gesturing at his head vaguely.

“More room for you in there now that Peter’s gone?” Meira suggests.

Lucas nods without looking at her. “Yeah.”

Andrea makes a sound that’s half sob, half laughter, drops to her knees and pulls Lucas into a tight hug that he returns at once. “How…?”

Sam and Dean exchange a look, and Meira grimaces. She remembers the end of this story, and it looks like she wasn’t enough to change that, either. “Your dad…” Sam begins haltingly. “He… well, I guess what Meira said spooked him, because he showed up where the bike was buried, too. And, uh…”

“When Peter tried to take Lucas, he offered himself up in trade.” Dean states grimly, getting it out there without hedging around the issue. “I’m sorry, Andrea.” Blinking rapidly against tears, Andrea shakes her head and then buries her face in Lucas’s hair.

* * *

**Lake Manitoc, Wisconsin – Monday 21 st  November 2005 **

“Time to hit the road.” Dean declares, throwing Meira’s bag into the trunk of the Impala next to his own and Sam’s. “You sure you packed everything?” He asks suspiciously.

Meira rolls her eyes. “Yes, _Dad_.” She mocks, ignoring the twinge it causes. Dean wrinkles his nose at her while Sam snickers.

“Meira! Sam! Dean!” The call grabs all their attention, and Meira looks over to see Andrea and Lucas crossing the road towards them, Lucas carrying a tray of something. “I’m glad we caught you. We just, uh… we made you lunch for the road. Lucas insisted on making the sandwiches himself.” Andrea explains through a teasing smile.

“Awesome.” Meira says brightly.

Lucas ducks his head, and then peers up at his mom. “Can I give it to them now?” He asks quietly.

“Of course.” Andrea assures him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

Dean ducks down a little to talk to Lucas, grinning fondly. “Come on, Lucas, let’s load this into the car.” He jerks his head and then gets an arm around Lucas’s shoulders to guide him over to the Impala’s passenger door.

“How’re you holding up?” Sam asks.

Andrea sighs softly, her smile dimming. “It’s just going to take a long time to sort through everything, you know?”

Sam sighs as well, looking over at Dean and Lucas. “Andrea, I’m sorry.”

“You saved my son.” Andrea reminds him, shaking her head. “I can’t ask for more than that. Besides,” She says, glancing over at Meira fondly, “now I have proof the afterlife is real, I know… the people I’ve lost aren’t lost forever. They’re just… somewhere else for now.”

“But not somewhere better.” Meira agrees, grinning.

Andrea leans over and kisses her, light but lingering. “Thank you, for everything.”

“Oh, hey.” Meira says, remembering. She pats at her pockets for her phone, locating it in one of the inner pockets of her coat, and pulls it out just as Dean and Lucas wander back over. “Let me give you my number, so that if you have any problems or questions later, you can ask.” She says, and Andrea happily pulls out her phone so they can exchange numbers.

Andrea turns to Dean while Meira is putting her number into Andrea’s phone. “Thank you, for helping us, for saving Lucas.” She says again.

“Just doing my job.” Dean replies awkwardly, shrugging her gratitude off.

“I put Dean’s number in there as well.” Meira tells them all cheerfully, and then looks specifically at Lucas. “He won’t admit it, but he’ll miss you, so make sure to text him about stuff occasionally, yeah?” She prompts teasingly.

“Hey!” Dean protests, but without any actual force behind it.

“Yeah, okay.” Lucas says to the floor, grinning.

Andrea frowns faintly. “Lucas?” She asks, crouching down to talk to him at his level. He looks up at her, frowning now. “Is something wrong?”

“No…?” Lucas says slowly.

“Why won’t you look at Meira?” Andrea asks gently, brushing Lucas’s fringe out of his eyes.

Lucas’s gaze darts in Meira’s direction, and then away again before he actually looks at her directly. “She’s too bright, and I don’t know how to make it stop.” He admits in a whisper, sounding almost embarrassed.

Andrea blinks, then turns to look at Meira for an explanation. Meira is painfully aware of Sam and Dean on either side of her, probably sharing raised-eyebrow looks with each other behind her back. She hadn’t realised Lucas could already see even the souls of the living, not just the dead, but if he’d see anyone’s, it would be hers. A human soul with the power and intensity of an angel’s grace. That had to be blinding, if not actually literally, thank God. “No worries, kid. You’ll get the hang of it eventually.” Meira assures him.

Lucas smiles wryly at the floor. “Yeah.” He agrees again.

They say a few more goodbyes, and then they’re pulling out of the parking lot and heading off with Andrea and Lucas waving in the rear view mirror. They’re maybe five minutes down the road when Sam asks. “What was Lucas talking about at the end there?”

Meira tries not to grimace. “I think you were right about the psychic powers thing.” She offers.

“Yeah, but he didn’t have any trouble looking at the rest of us.” Sam points out.

Meira shrugs helplessly. “Maybe my soul is just brighter than yours.” She says, like she’s being silly, instead of like she knows it for a fact.

Sam snorts. “Okay.” He says, very clearly just humouring her. Meira smiles sunnily, and then flops down to sprawl out over the back seat. She stares up at the ceiling and wonders what would happen if she told Sam and Dean everything. ‘Oh, by the way, I’m your mostly-angelic daughter from the future.’ They’re hunter enough that they wouldn’t laugh, she’s sure of that, but since angels haven’t been seen on earth in a long ass time, they probably wouldn’t actually believe her. Just the thought of her dad looking at her like she’s something _other_ makes her feel sick to her stomach.

Music comes on, and Meira relaxes despite herself. If she closes her eyes and pretends it’s Jace in the passenger seat, this could be any one of their summer road trips. “Led Zeppelin.” She comments. “Awesome. Kansas is better lullaby music, but I’ll deal.”

“Kansas is _lullaby music_?” Dean asks with a snort.

“Mm, number of times my dad put that on for long drives, and I’d pass right out in the back seat.” Meira reminisces fondly. “Pabbi thought it was hilarious, and when my brother came along, he made a little music box to play Carry On Wayward Son, lullaby version.”

“Pabbi?” Dean echoes.

“Isn’t that the word for ‘Dad’ in… Icelandic?” Sam guesses.

“Wait, you have two dads?” Dean asks.

Meira sighs. “I have three.” She corrects, rote.

“Three dads?” Dean echoes, incredulous. “How’d that happen?”

Meira rolls her eyes and aches a little inside that the question is coming from him of all people. “Well, when three people love each other very much-” She begins patronisingly.

“Alright, jeez.” Dean interrupts quickly, and Sam laughs at him. Meira grins lazily at the roof of the car. Dean clears his throat awkwardly. “So, uh, you have a little brother, too?” He asks, clearly wanting to move off the topic of her dads.

Meira swallows, missing Jace so much it hurts. “Had, I guess.” She corrects thickly. “Jace.”

“You know, I just realised we never got your last name.” Sam says suddenly.

Meira blinks her eyes open to stare at the ceiling blankly. Well, shit. She can’t exactly tell them the _truth_ now, can she? And she can’t steal Pabbi’s or Qaada’s because they _didn’t have one_. “Novak,” is what spills out of her mouth. It would probably have been better to steal Aunt Mia’s last name, but, well, it’ll do. By the time Sam and Dean figure out where she got the name from, there will be angels on earth again, and maybe then she can explain.


	3. A Blaze of Light in Every Word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Chapter title from Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah. It comes from probably my favourite verse of the whole song, and I have to apologise profusely for profaning such a beautiful quote by using it to reference the absolute shitshow that is the Enochian 'conlang' ^^")

**Allentown, Pennsylvania – Saturday 3 rd  December 2005 **

Meira makes Dean tell her about the poltergeist on their way to Pennsylvania. It’s a good story, and it’s also a reminder that John Winchester is a real person, her grandfather by blood. She knew about him, of course, but he was long dead by the time she came into the world, and honestly, she’d never given him much thought. Now, she’s suddenly aware that if it was _her_ in her dad’s place, she wouldn’t be half so composed.

They don’t even stop to find a motel before heading to the airport where Jerry works. He greets Dean with no small amount of relief, and then shakes hands all around. “And this must be Sam, right?” He asks when he gets to Sam.

“That’s right.” Sam confirms. “And this is Meira.”

“Pleasure.” Jerry says, sincere but perfunctory, before leading them inside. He reminisces a little on the way to his office, and Meira listens in fascination, but once they get there, it’s right down to business. “Okay, listen to this.” He says. “Well, it sounded like it was up your alley. Normally I wouldn’t have access to this. It’s the cockpit voice recorder for United Britannia flight 2485. It was one of ours.”

At first, it’s just a crackly recording of a may day signal, and then it fuzzes out to be replaced by a sound that makes Meira reach for her blade on pure instinct. Pain lances through her, and she flinches hard. “Hey, are you okay?” Jerry asks.

Meira nods. “Took me by surprise, is all.” She says dismissively.

“Alright, well, it took off from here.” Jerry explains. “Crashed about 200 miles south. Now, they’re saying mechanical failure. Cabin depressurised somehow, nobody knows why. Over a hundred people on board, only seven got out alive.”

“Seven people survived?” Meira echoes in surprise.

Jerry’s eyebrows furrow. “That surprises you?” He asks carefully.

Meira shrugs with a grimace. “That sounded demonic to me. Sometimes spirits can affect radios and such, but it’s usually just static, psychic residue. That was way too loud to be residue. And demons aren’t known for leaving survivors.” It isn’t like she can tell them that she understands Hellspeech well enough. It isn’t like human languages, which she’s always been able to understand, but Crowley was one of the few creatures in existence that hadn’t thought she was an abomination. Or, he had, it’s just he didn’t have a problem with abominations, so he’d taught her how to understand his, heh, ‘native’ language.

Yeah, she definitely isn’t telling these two hunters, who aren’t yet her dad and uncle, that the King of Hell, or King of the Crossroads as he is now, taught her how to understand demons. Or that this one is fucking gloating on the radio of a plane it had just caused to crash.

Jerry pales. Sam and Dean both turn to stare at her, eyebrows raised. “Demonic?” Jerry asks, quiet and strained.

“I can’t be sure.” Meira lies. “But that would be my guess, yeah.”

“Well,” Sam says slowly, “we’re going to need passenger manifests, a list of survivors, and-”

“And any way we could take a look at the wreckage?” Dean interjects.

Jerry takes a breath to marshal himself, and Meira is actually impressed by how well he keeps his composure. “The other stuff is no problem, but the wreckage?” He shakes his head grimly. “The NTSB has it locked down in an evidence warehouse. No way I’ve got that kind of clearance.”

Dean nods slowly, and then shakes his head in dismissal. “No problem.”

Meira has to bite back a grin, and once they’ve gotten the lists of passengers and survivors from Jerry and they’re leaving, she nudges Dean with her elbow and asks, “No problem, huh?” Dean just grins back, smug and cocky, and, oh, yeah, this is going to be good.

A short drive and an endless wait later, which Meira fills with reading a paperback she picked up from a bookshop across the street, and Sam passes with pacing and frustration until Meira gives in and starts reading aloud in an over-dramatic fashion, Dean returns with brand new fake IDs for all of them. Sam, of course, immediately remembers his impatience, and huffs, “You’ve been in there forever!”

“You can’t rush perfection.” Dean retorts, flipping one of the cards over to Meira, who catches it between the pages of her book, then retrieves it eagerly.

“Homeland security?” Sam asks incredulously.

Meira whoops. “Oh, man. _Yes_.”

“See?” Dean says to Sam. “She knows an awesome idea when she hears one.”

“The doors this baby is going to open.” Meira agrees in delight. “The prank opportunities will be endless and _glorious_.”

Sam rounds on her, while Dean bursts out laughing. “ _Pranks_?”

Meira blinks at him in feigned wide-eyed innocence. “Don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to scare the shit out of someone by threatening them with charges of treason or something.” She points out. She wishes Pabbi were here, or Jace. They’ve always been better at coming up with the truly hilarious pranks. Sam just shakes his head and gets back in the car. Meira and Dean share a grin, and then follow to discuss the case and plan their next move.

Which turns out to be interrogating the passenger in the psychiatric hospital. Meira keeps quiet and lets Dean and Sam do most of the talking, wishing she could see the state of the man’s soul. She doesn’t really need to, to know he’s disturbed by what he saw, but it would be nice to know _how_ disturbed. Whether he’d prefer the illusion of normality, or if doubting his own perception is doing more harm than good. In her own, limited, twenty-five years of experience with human souls, she’s never seen anything so damaging as doubting their own perception, but in some cases, she has to admit that the lie does seem to help people hold it together through otherwise traumatic incidents.

“It’s okay.” Sam says, as Meira considers everything she can read from Max Jaffrey’s body language and comes to a decision. She’s pretty sure Sam and Dean are going to hate it, but they can suck it up and deal. “Just tell us what you thought you saw. Please.” Sam entreats, and it works.

Max sighs, and starts, haltingly, to talk. “There was… this- man.” He begins, stops, licks his lips nervously. “And… uh, he had these… eyes.” He gestures vaguely towards his own face.

“Black eyes?” Meira asks.

Max’s head jerks up and he stares at her with wide eyes, while Sam and Dean both turn to stare at her. “Y-yeah. How did you…?”

Meira takes a step forward from where she was loitering, and claims the last open seat, opposite Max. “You weren’t seeing things.” She tells him simply.

“Meira.” Dean growls.

“Man deserves to know he’s not crazy.” Meira replies without looking away from Max, who’s shaking his head.

“That can’t have been real.” He protests. “I saw him-”

“Saw him what?” Sam prompts gently, although the look Meira sees him direct at her out of the corner of her eye is hard.

Max’s next breath shakes. “He- he opened the emergency exit. But that’s- that’s impossible. I mean, I looked it up, there’s something like two tonnes of pressure on that door.” He insists, looking between the three of them, pleading for an explanation, any explanation, that makes sense.

“Do you really believe you were seeing things?” Meira asks him.

He stares at her, then swallows hard. It’s several long, long minutes before he finally answers. “No.” He says, so quiet Meira almost can’t hear him. “Some-something made the plane crash, right? And if it wasn’t- wasn’t what I saw, then… what was it?”

Meira smiles at him, gentle but proud. “It was exactly what you saw.”

“But _how_?” Max demands.

“The black eyes are a fairly good indicator that the man you saw was possessed by a demon.” Meira informs him, and Max’s eyes widen in belated fear. “Demons do possess far greater strength than your average human, so one could absolutely open the emergency exit while the plane was still in the air.”

“Oh.” Max says thickly. “Demons actually exist.”

“I’m afraid so.” Meira agrees wryly. When it seems Max is too busy processing that to have any immediate questions, she nods. “Do you have your phone with you?” She asks. Max shakes his head wordlessly. “Do you know your number off by heart?” She asks, not hopeful.

But, it turns out, there are some benefits to being stuck in 2005. People aren’t quite so used to their phones doing their thinking for them, and some of them do, still, memorise their own phone numbers. Max rattles his off without a problem, and Meira whips her own phone out to save it. Then she sends him a text. “There. Now, when you get out of here, if you have any questions, you can call me.” She explains.

Max nods. Then he shakes his head. “You’re not Homeland Security, are you?” He asks.

Meira grins at him. “Special branch.” She tells him, then raps her knuckles on the table, and stands. “Don’t worry, Mr Jaffrey, we’ll get the thing that did this.” She assures him, and a little of the fear in him melts away as he nods.

It isn’t until they’re out of the hospital that Sam rounds on her. Meira honestly wasn’t expecting it. “What the hell was that?” He demands. Meira stares at him incredulously. “Why did you tell him that? You scared him half to death!”

“Um, no.” Meira snaps, indignant at this false accusation. “ _I_ didn’t. The demon did.”

“And he was perfectly fine thinking he’d imagined the whole thing, so why did you-?!”

“Checking yourself into a _psychiatric hospital_ is the exact _opposite_ of fine!”

“He would have gotten over it! And then he could go home and carry on his normal life, but instead, you had to go and drop _demons_ on him!”

“You have _no_ guarantee that he would have gotten over it!”

“ _You_ have no guarantee how well he’ll handle _demons_ , but that didn’t stop you!”

“Oh, so we should have just joined in on gaslighting him, then?”

“Whoa! Okay, _time out_ !” Dad barks, physically inserting himself between Meira and Rob- No, it’s _Sam_ , Sam who is not yet her uncle and Rob hasn’t been born yet. Meira blinks rapidly as she backs up a step, and then another. She didn’t realise how in each other’s face they were getting until Dad intervened. _Dean_. Until _Dean_ intervened. She closes her eyes for a moment, trying not to feel too much like her family’s been ripped away from her all over again. “Okay, let’s all just chill.” Dean instructs firmly. “What’s done is done, Sam.”

“It shouldn’t have been.” Sam insists through gritted teeth. “People shouldn’t have to deal with all this unless they don’t have any other choice.”

“Hey, man, I agree with you, but there’s no helping it now.” Dean repeats. Sam scowls.

“He already had to deal with it. It nearly _killed him_.” Meira points out. “I’m not going to go around shouting it from the rooftops, okay. Not least of all because people would think I’m nuts, but… Do you know how hard it is, to have the whole world telling you that _you’re_ the problem? That there’s something wrong with _you_ , not something wrong _out there_? No one deserves that!”

Sam sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose, and it’s a gesture that’s going to carry through the rest of his life, all the way until he’s in his sixties and a father and an uncle exasperated with his oh so headstrong niece. But instead of patiently and logically ripping all of Meira’s dreams of chaos and glory to shreds, he just shakes his head and heads for the Impala without another word. It leaves Meira feeling strangely like she’s the one who just lost that argument. Or maybe lost something more important by winning it.

“You know, Sam ran away.” Dean says suddenly.

Meira startles, and is half an instant away from saying something really stupid, like ‘yeah, I know, Dad, you’ve told me this story about a dozen times’, but manages to stop herself just in time. “Oh?” She asks instead, her voice wobbling slightly.

Dean glances at her and grimaces faintly in apology. “Yeah. He wanted to get away from hunting, from the supernatural, be _normal_ or whatever.” He shrugs as if to say the notion baffles him. It baffles Meira, too, but then, she never has been and never will be ‘normal’, and she’s never really felt like her life was missing anything. “Then the thing that killed our mom killed his girlfriend.”

“Ouch. I’m sorry.” Meira says, trying desperately to remember that this is supposed to be news to her, not ancient family history.

“Yeah, well, it makes it pretty hard for him to argue that you should’ve let that guy live in ignorant bliss. He tried that, and it came back to bite him, it could come back to bite this guy, too. But I think he wishes the world worked that way. It ought to. People shouldn’t have to be afraid of the monsters in the dark.”

“People shouldn’t have to be afraid of robbers, either, but we still lock our doors at night.” Meira replies softly. “If people knew, if it was common knowledge what was out there, yeah, maybe they’d be afraid, but maybe they’d line their doors and windows in salt, and get anti-possession tattoos, and then go right on living their normal lives.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Yeah, maybe.” He doesn’t sound like he believes it, though. Meira can’t exactly blame him. There’s a reason the supernatural has stayed more or less hidden for the last several hundred years, and it’s because most people don’t _want_ to believe it’s true, so they refuse to see it. “Still think it was kind of shitty to just drop demons on him and then leave.”

Meira pulls a face, hunching down against a lecture she knows probably isn’t coming. “I gave him my number. And once we’re done with this, I’ll probably call him if he doesn’t call me and give him the full lecture on demons and theology as it applies to reality.” Somewhere Dean and Sam can’t hear her to question her in depth knowledge of the workings of Hell.

“You hunted demons before?” Dean asks in surprise, finally starting towards the Impala as well.

The answer is yes. On a normal day, demons wouldn’t really be difficult for her. She is anathema to them, after all. “No.” Meira lies.

“Then how do you know enough to give the full lecture?” Dean asks, giving her a look as he opens the driver’s door. Meira doesn’t answer until they’re both in the car with a sulking Sam, and once they’re in, Dean doesn’t give her the opportunity. “You said you don’t really hunt, but you’re a freaking encyclopedia. Moonfiends?” He prompts.

Meira sighs, and resigns herself to cobbling bits and pieces of the truth into a coherent whole, because infinite angelic memory isn’t something she’s going to bring up. “Okay, that one is because my best friend is a moonfiend, so I got a first person account.” She defends. “But my aunt and uncle keep- kept a supernatural library, and I read a lot as a kid.”

“Huh.” Dean muses as they pull out onto the road. “Okay, I’m just gonna ask. You best friend is a moonfiend?” He sounds incredulous.

Meira pulls a face at him through the rear view mirror. “Azura.” She confirms defiantly.

“What exactly is a moonfiend?” Sam asks, turning to look at her, putting aside his irritation in favour of academic curiosity. Meira beams fondly at him, because this is why Sam has always been her favourite uncle. “I know you said they’re kind of like mothmen, but mothmen are a really specific type of vengeful nature spirit.”

“Well, no, they’re more like furies. They’re not spirits, they’re corporeal, but they’re born from… desecrated ground. Furies are born from human sins against humans, mothmen are born from human sins against nature.” Meira explains, leaning forward as she gets into explaining. “A moonfiend is actually more like a werewolf in metaphysical characteristics, but like mothmen in physical characteristics.”

“So, they’re subject to the phases of the moon?” Sam checks.

Meira nods. “A moonfiend is born when a virgin, and that’s not just a sexual virgin, but a magical and metaphysical virgin, too, stares too long at an unfiltered blue moon.”

Dean actually takes a moment away from watching the road to turn and stare at her. Sam gapes for several minutes, until he finally manages to ask. “Blue moons happen every three years. Why aren’t they everywhere?”

“Well, half the time the pregnancy kills the mother before the baby is viable. Or the mother kills the baby after she’s given birth because, well, it’s pretty obviously not human. All that on top of just how hard it is to count as a metaphysical virgin these days.” Meira points out. “Or what counts as unfiltered. I mean, glasses, smog, clouds, astral disturbances.”

“Astral disturbances?” Sam questions.

“Okay!” Dean says loudly, interrupting Meira before she can even start to explain. “I’m glad you two have made up, you nerds, but can we figure out our next step here? I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve never hunted _demon_ before.” Meira has to sit back and let the weirdness of _that_ statement wash over her. This is her Dad’s first ever demon hunt. _Weird_. “Are we even sure it is a demon?” He asks, glancing back at Meira and sounding like he wishes he could hope, but he doesn’t. “I mean, this doesn’t exactly seem like demon MO… does it?”

Meira grimaces. “It’s not tempting mortals to sin, sure, but… they like to spread pain and suffering, death and destruction. It’s like a hobby.” She chirps, all dark humour.

“And this one’s hobby is _plane crashes?_ ” Dean demands incredulously. “That seems a little… I don’t know, modern.” He mutters, and Meira snickers. “Jesus. Okay. Evolving with the times or not, it’s still gotta be possessing someone right?” Meira nods when Dean’s eyes flicker to her in the mirror. “Great, so it could be anyone right now. How the hell are we gonna find this thing?” He asks, and Meira’s heart leaps into her throat. It’s stupid, she knows that Dean’s never done this before, but he’s her dad and he sounds overwhelmed and that scares her.

“Dean?” Sam asks, obviously picking up on the same thing. “What…?”

Dean sighs. “I don’t know, man, this is kind of out of our league, don’t you think? Demon’s aren’t like the rest of the shit we hunt. Even wendigos, they still- there’s still rhyme and reason to what they do, you know? Demons, man…” He pauses and sighs, hands going white-knuckled on the wheel. “This is… this is big, Sam. I wish Dad was here.”

“Yeah.” Sam agrees quietly, staring intently out of the wind-shield. “Me too.”

Meira swallows and doesn’t say ‘me three’, even though she really wants to. She wants all of her dads. She wants her grace free so that she’s not quite so helpless without them. “Hey.” She says, and ploughs on even though her voice shakes a little. “We can do this. Okay, it might be an entire order of magnitude bigger than a vengeful spirit, but it’s the same basics, right? So, how do we find our monster once we’ve figured out what it is?”

“We figure out what it wants.” Sam says practically. “Because that’s how we’ll know where it’s going to be.” Then he shakes his head. “But if all it wants is to cause plane crashes… I mean, do you have any idea how many flights take off from even just one state every day? There’s no way we could find it.”

That is a good point. Meira grimaces. She’s still trying to figure out how the hell they can do anything about this when Dean slams a flat palm against the wheel, making both her and Sam jump. “Son of a bitch.” He swears sharply, in a tone of revelation. “The _survivors_.”

Meira blinks. “Dean?” Sam asks, in equal bewilderment.

“The message, on the voice recorder. The demon, it said-”

“‘No survivors.’” Sam echoes. “But there were, there were seven.”

“Yeah, and if this were a vengeful spirit…” Dean trails off pointedly.

“It’d want to finish the job.” Sam realises, nodding along. Then he dives on the bag at his feet to pull out the list of passengers and survivors.

“It was gloating.” Meira interjects, a touch amused. “Prematurely. It’s gotta be _so pissed_ it failed to kill everyone on that flight. I mean, talk about embarrassing.” Dean snorts. “So, now we know what it wants. Now we’ve just gotta figure out where it’s going to be.”

“Do you think…” Sam begins, tapping a finger rapidly on the side of the sheet with the survivors on it. “I mean, if it was a spirit, I’d say for sure, but… Do you think it’ll want to stick to killing them in plane crashes? Because _that_ would be a way to narrow down who it’s going after next.” He points out.

“Sounds like a lead to me.” Dean agrees, and Sam immediately pulls out his phone and starts scanning over the list, before dialling a number.

“I mean, demons basically are vengeful spirits, just ramped up to a thousand on a scale of one to ten.” Meira muses to Dean while Sam hangs up and tries another. “So, yeah, some patterns of behaviour probably do carry over, at least a little.”

“That is so not comforting.” Dean mutters.

“Hey, Jerry, it’s Sam.” Sam greets. “I was just trying to get in touch with the pilot. You said he was a friend, so I thought you might-” He trails off, and then snaps “Dean.” so urgently that Dean automatically takes his eyes off the road to look over at him on high alert. “The pilot’s going up in less than an hour.”

“Shit.” Dean swears, and floors the gas.

“Look, Jerry,” Sam is saying into the phone, “is there any way you can get in touch with him, convince him not to go up?” A pause. “Please try. We’re on our way.” He hangs up, jaw tight. “How soon can we get to the airfield in Nazareth?”

“Forty-five minutes.” Dean announces, then somehow makes the Impala go even faster. “Forty minutes.”

“Okay, so we need to figure out how to get rid of a demon in forty minutes.” Sam states.

“Exorcisms?” Dean suggests.

“Do you know any by heart?” Sam retorts.

“I do.” Meira offers. It’s not exactly hard when one’s fluent in the language of angels and can invoke the name of god in it. Pretty much anything becomes an exorcism then. ‘Go away’ could count as an exorcism, as long as you followed up with ‘in the name of the lord’ or something similar. “Do we have any holy water?” She asks, not daring to hope.

“Uh, no.” Dean replies.

Meira winces, and amends her request. “Do we have water and a rosary?”

“Rosary is in the boot.” Dean tells her, while Sam retrieves a bottle of water from his bag. After about five minutes of bickering, Meira convinces him to pull over so that she can hop out and grab the rosary. Dean’s peeling out of the layby before she’s even got the door closed again, and then she screws the top off the bottled water, dumps the rosary inside, and sets about blessing it. She really, really hopes this works, and isn’t contingent on her grace being able to affect the world beyond her skin. She’s never officially been ordained or anything, but active grace or not, she’s still a fucking archangel.

“That should be holy water now.” Meira says once she’s done, handing the water back to Sam.

“Should?” Dean barks.

“I’ve never done this before, okay?” Meira shoots back, unable to keep a hint of defensive panic from her tone. “I have the qualifications for it, but I never thought I needed to _check_ that it would work!” Dean pulls a face, but lets it go. Meira swallows down her fear. “You should- you should check on the others while we have the time.” She says to Sam, and he nods. He spends the drive going through the list of survivors and pretending to be a United Britannia Airlines survey. While he’s doing that, Meira calls Max, which turns into an impromptu explanation of how to identify demons.

By the time Meira’s off the phone, Sam’s gone through the rest of the survivors. “I still can’t get in touch with the flight attendant.” Sam states, hanging up the phone again.

“Given her job, I’d say that’s a bad sign.” Dean says dryly.

Sam snorts. “Yeah, no kidding. I’m going to call Jerry, see if he can tell me when she’s working next.” He explains, and then does just that. After a brief introduction, he gives Jerry the woman’s name, “Amanda Walker,” and waits a couple of minutes while Jerry does the research he can’t while he’s stuck on the highway. “Oh?” Sam says, an edge to his voice Meira really doesn’t like. “This evening? Look, Jerry-” A long pause. “No, I understand. Okay. Yeah, we’re on our way. Bye.”

“She’s working _tonight_?” Dean asks in dismay.

“Yeah. Flight leaves at eight. And there’s no way Jerry can ground the flight.” Sam adds in dismay.

Dean takes a bracing breath. “We’re just going to have to stop this son of a bitch before he can get that far.” He announces, and Meira tries to bolster her own confidence with his.

* * *

**Nazareth, Pennsylvania – Saturday 3 rd  December 2005 **

By the time they get to the airfield, there are already two men walking across the tarmac to a small plane. “Shit.” Dean swears, and they all fling themselves out of the car.

“Mr Lambert!” Sam calls as they jog over. Security inevitably tries to stop them, but Dean flashes a badge at them, almost too fast for them to see more than that it looks sort of official, but it is enough to get them past. “Mr Lambert!” Sam calls again, and one of the two men nudges the other, and he turns.

“Yeah?” The second man says, so he must be Jerry’s friend, the pilot.

Meira looks at the other one, who’s watching them with a sort of sceptical hostility. She holds her hand out to him. “Agent Meira Geyad.” She greets, watching him closely, but there’s no reaction except a raised eyebrow as he takes her hand. Oh, hell. She starts to turn, but then a fist meets her face with enough force to send her sprawling.

“Shit!” Dean swears.

“Chuck!” The other man shouts in horror. “Wha-” He’s cut off by an awful crunching noise that makes Meira’s stomach turn over in guilt. It’s followed by a splash, and the hissing of corruption being melted away by a holy blessing. Holy water worked then, thank God, Meira thinks dizzily, finally healing enough to look up.

The demon grabs for Sam, getting him by the throat, and Dean yells his name in desperation. Meira starts to spit out the simplest exorcism she knows, but before she can get more than three words in, the demon has dropped Sam and kicked her in the ribs hard enough to wind her. Hard enough to break ribs, actually, but those heal quickly like her fractured cheekbone did. It takes a little longer to catch her breath, and by then, the demon has abandoned its meatsuit, streaming out of Chuck Lambert’s mouth and leaving him to collapse to the ground.

“Jesus.” Dean breathes. “Sam?”

“Fine.” Sam rasps.

“Meira?” Dean checks, dropping to his knees beside her. “You alright?” Meira groans, and takes the hand he offers her, letting him haul her up into a sitting position. “I’m guessing that wasn’t how an exorcism is supposed to go.”

“No, it realised what I was trying to do and left before I could send it back to hell.” Meira huffs, rubbing at her side just to check that her ribs are back where they’re supposed to be.

“Why’d it flinch at your name?” Dean asks curiously.

“Ge-Iad is one of the names of God.” Meira explains.

“Never heard that one before.” Dean says, eyebrows rising. “I thought you used Christ to test for demons.”

“The more often the name is used without faith, the less power it holds over the demonic.” Meira replies. “You can amp it up by using a language like Latin, which is both dead and stuffed full of religious ritual by now, but, you have any idea how many people say ‘Jesus Christ’ as an invective, without a thought as to _why_ they swear that way?”

“And Ge-Iad, that’s, what? Never used?” Dean asks.

“Never without the proper reverence.” Meira corrects, and then tips her head. “Until today.” She adds with a pointed look, which earns her the best devil-may-care grin in her dad’s arsenal.

“Guys.” Sam calls, solemn. “Chuck’s dead.”

“Oh, that petty son of a bitch.” Meira grouses, flopping back down onto the tarmac.

“Uh-uh. Come on, up.” Dean instructs, getting to his feet and holding out his hand again. “We’ve still gotta stop this son of a bitch before he brings another plane down.” Meira whines, but takes his hand and lets him pull her to her feet.

“And we’ve got company.” Sam adds, as the airfield security descend on them.

Sam and Dean both look like deer in the headlights of a semi, so Meira takes charge. She orders security to inform the police of the incident, flashes her fake ID about, and then leaves with Sam and Dean on ‘important business’ before the police actually arrive. “Back to Allentown?” Dean checks, and Sam nods, already on the phone.

“I _still_ can’t get in touch with the flight attendant.” Sam tells them several minutes later.

“We can’t let her get on that plane.” Dean insists.

Meira thinks about the fake IDs they’ve been using and has a really, really bad idea. She’s pretty sure Pabbi would approve. “I have an idea?” She offers. Sam turns to look at her, and she grimaces as she holds up her fake ID. “But… we’re going to need to look the part.”

Sam blinks once, and then his eyes widen. “Oh, no.” He says quickly. “No, there’s no way we can pull that off!”

“Why not?” Meira challenges.

“What?” Dean asks, glancing in the rear view mirror. “What’s the plan?”

“What’s TSA going to do if Homeland Security shows up and tells them there’s a terrorist on that plane?” Meira asks rhetorically.

Dean stares out the windshield for a long moment. “Okay. Monkey suits it is.” He says in a tone of resignation.

“And then what?!” Sam demands, a little hysterically, in Meira’s opinion. “We ground the plane, that’s great, and then we’re in the middle of an airport, surrounded by TSA, and we’re going to have to produce a terrorist for them!”

Meira shrugs. “Not necessarily. We just say we got a tip, or a _suspicion_ that there might be, and when there isn’t, well, can’t be too careful in the pursuit of terrorists, right?” She points out. “We won’t even be lying if we tell them we have a suspicion that someone on board is planning to sabotage the flight. It’s true.”

“And how are we going to do an exorcism in the middle of all of this?” Sam demands.

“I’m not sure.” Meira huffs. “If it was just a case of getting the exorcism out, that would be one thing, but we have to make sure the demon sticks around for me to use it. Easiest way would be a devil’s trap, but it’d probably be a bad idea to go around scrawling pagan voodoo on the walls in front of TSA, huh?” She muses.

Dean snorts. “Okay, here’s the plan.” He says briskly. “Once we’ve got the plane grounded and all the passengers and staff isolated for interviewing or whatever, we’re going to insist on talking to everyone separately, and then whatever room they offer us, you two are going to keep everyone busy while I put a devil’s trap… on the ceiling, probably. Somewhere that’s not glaringly obvious, anyway.” He pauses, glancing back to make sure both Sam and Meira are on board. Meira nods enthusiastically, and Sam sighs in surrender. “Okay, so, what’s a devil’s trap look like?”

“Pentacle.” Meira answers easily. “You can make them more complicated, if you need to hold a stronger demon or a specific demon or you need to limit specific things within it, but… basic devil’s trap is just a pentagram in a circle.”

“Right, easy enough.” Dean agrees.

They stop to get suits at the first place they see. Dean looks hilariously uncomfortable, and Meira really wishes there was something she could say to help, but given that it’s a feeling that persists all the way through his life, she figures there’s not much _anyone_ could say to make him feel better. “Should’ve got one with a waistcoat.” She says instead.

“Why the hell would I want _extra layers_ of this bullshit?” Dean demands.

“Waistcoats are sexy as hell.” Meira informs him, smoothing down the front of her own.

Dean pauses and looks back at the shop with pained consideration. “Nope, no time.” Sam informs him. Dean makes a face at him, but doesn’t protest.

* * *

**Allentown, Pennsylvania – Saturday 3 rd  December 2005 **

The plan goes off without a hitch. Meira knows that the most important part of pulling a prank like this is confidence, so she turns hers up to the max, channelling her pabbi and every archangel instinct she has, and TSA goes along with it. In fact, Meira is honestly a little shocked by how quickly everyone responds, until she remembers that, of course, it’s been four, not forty, years since the whole 9/11 thing. The flight gets grounded, TSA agents scurry about searching people and, helpfully, dragging them to and from the room they let the three of them conduct ‘interviews’ from. Meira is honestly having a ridiculous amount of fun, playing the scary Homeland Security agent looking for terrorists.

“You’re having fun.” Sam accuses under his breath, once they’re done with the passengers and about to get started on the staff.

Meira flashes him a wild, reckless grin. “I told you the prank opportunities were going to be glorious.” She murmurs back. Sam gives her an incredulous look, but doesn’t say more because the door is opening. Meira gives it a minute before she turns around, because if this is their demon, she doesn’t want to spook him before he’s sitting right on top of Dean’s devil’s trap, which he drew in magic marker on the bottom of the chair.

“I don’t see why this is-” The co-pilot cuts himself off when Meira and Sam turn around, his eyes flashing black as the demon loses control of itself for a brief moment in its shock. Or rage. Either one. “You again.” It hisses.

“Us again.” Dean says leaning back against the door.

The demon tries to lunge upwards, but the chair, conveniently bolted to the floor, doesn’t move, and the demon can’t leave it. It looks down, then back up again in outrage. “Who are you?” It demands, looking directly at Meira.

She smiles. “Zirdo zizop ol Ge-Iad, od lis ip darb ziri.” She informs it, and watches it recoil in horror with no little satisfaction.

“That’s not Latin.” Sam comments, looking at her in surprise.

“Nope.” Meira agrees cheerfully enough.

“ _You_ , though, you I know.” The demon adds, looking at Sam. He and Dean both go very still, staring intently. “I know what happened to your girlfriend, and if you let her do this, you’ll never find out why.” It taunts, a nasty smirk curling the host’s lips.

Sam stiffens. “Wait.” He says, and the demon grins.

“Sam.” Dean warns.

“What do you know about Jessica?” Sam demands.

“Let me go and I’ll tell you everything.” The demon promises.

Sam splashes holy water in its face, and it recoils with a yell, steaming. “Tell me, or I’ll-”

“Or you’ll what?” The demon spits, mocking. “What do you think you can do to me that’s worse than that?” It jerks its chin at Meira, who arches one eyebrow. “Let me go, or no deal.”

“Sam, we’re not letting this thing go.” Dean states. “It’s probably lying anyway.”

Sam’s free hand clenches into a fist. After a minute in which he doesn’t move, Meira gently pushes past him to stand in front of the demon. “Bols ma a’aiom, pa’aox il adohi ol Onsamir.” She instructs, and the demon hisses and thrashes, actually cracking the floor where the chair is bolted to it. Meira reaches out and puts a hand on the demon’s shoulder. It stills, tensing, staring at her with wide black eyes. “Niizo i etharzi, ammal, od yinay ma doal.” She says gently. “Oyi gohe Zire.”

Holy light suffuses the vessel, and the essence of the demon pours out of his mouth in the form black smoke even as it’s forced from this plane of existence, vanishing in midair.

Sam turns away and punches the wall. Dean watches him carefully, but when Sam just stands there, breathing hard, he goes to check the slumped co-pilot’s pulse. “He’s alive.” He reports. “So, do we need to carry on this farce, or can we just…?” He jerks his thumb at the door.

Meira takes a moment to hate the demon, because Sam’s mood is going to suck all the fun out of this. “I think we should finish. Let’s not give them a reason to get suspicious straight away, yeah?” She prompts, and Dean reluctantly nods, then shakes the co-pilot awake. He comes awake with a jolt, and immediately panics at the memory of the demon. “Calm down, you’re fine now.” Meira assures him.

“And if you want to stay fine, you’re going to act normal and not talk about this, or the nice TSA agents are going to arrest you for being a terrorist.” Dean adds, which doesn’t exactly help the guy’s fear, but it does redirect it nicely.

It’s a little tedious, going through the same rote questions with the rest of the staff, but there’s few enough left that Meira doesn’t mind. It’s worth it for the opportunity to bitch, in a restrained and professional manner, to the TSA agents about wild goose chases and bad information, and how she’s going to complain to her superiors about their lax fact-checking. The agents are so busy reminding her that ‘better safe than sorry’ and that it’s important work that they don’t even stop to wonder about a whole plane being delayed for what turned out to be nothing. Then the three of them are back in the Impala and driving away clean.

“We should have questioned the demon properly.” Sam says abruptly.

“Dude, Sam, seriously. It probably didn’t know jack shit.” Dean insists. “These things like to play with your mind, you can’t let it.”

“And even if it did know something, torturing information out of demons is _hard_ , Sam. Not to mention ethically dubious given that the host suffers everything you do to the demon, too.” Meira points out, and Sam flinches, but his hard glare doesn’t waver. “Do you really think you can torture someone worse than _Hell_ can, Sam? Someone _innocent_ , just to find out what the demon riding their soul knows?”

Sam whips around to glare at her. “Yes.” He bites out, and then looks away, nausea twisting his expression. “No.” He capitulates. “I don’t-”

“Look, Sam. We will find this thing, alright? We _will_. And we don’t need to drag innocent people into it to do it. We’re better than that. Better than them.” Dean insists.

Meira smiles, bracing her elbows on the back of the front seats and lacing her fingers together to rest her chin on. “Damn straight.”

* * *

**Marion, Indiana – Sunday 25 th  December 2005 **

It’s stupid, but it never occurred to Meira that Sam and Dean might not do Christmas. When she’d asked, a few days ago, Dean had just shrugged and said sure, they could do a present exchange this year, like that was _optional_. It’s only just sunk in, lying in the dark in a lonely motel room, that there just isn’t going to be Christmas this year.

No tree, no lights, no elaborate Santa traps, no cake for not-bro Jesus so entirely stuffed with candles that you could kill a wendigo with it, no trip to Scandinavia to have snowball fights in ancient pine forests, no stories of hunting pagan gods through the festivities. She’s alone, bound beneath her skin, with no possible way of finding out who did this to her, never mind what they did, or how to get home. She could pray to Pabbi, but he couldn’t answer, not without revealing himself to the Host, and she won’t do that to him, won’t force him to make that choice.

Midnight comes and goes, and the only way Meira knows is because she’s watching the shitty digital clock on the bedside table. She can’t feel the turn of the earth through the cosmos, can’t feel the ripples of time as billions and billions of humans make choices and change things. All she has is what’s trapped under her skin, and it’s _nothing_. Nothing compared to what she used to have. A family, and an entire universe to share with them.

Unable to bear it any longer, she rolls out of bed, gets dressed, and heads out. Once there, she goes to the vending machine and buys one of everything that looks like it has a cavity-inducing sugar-content, and carries it all over to the Impala. Then she hops up onto the hood, lies back, and starts in on her stash while watching the stars. “Hey, Granddad.” She says, out loud while opening up a pack of skittles, because who gives a fuck. “Looks like you’re the only family I’ve got for Christmas this year. Well, you and not-bro. How’s the garden, Josh? Sorry about no cake this year. It’d feel like… cheating, somehow, if I tried to get Sam and Dean to do it with me. Like I’m stealing something from their future, you know? Even if I bet Dean would get a kick out of it.”

She takes a deep breath, suddenly finding it hard not to cry. “You know, I always got why you fucked off, Granddad. Why you won’t interfere. I don’t think anyone else in my family really does. Except maybe Jace. He might’ve figured it out, but I bet he’s still stuck on the free will thing. That you won’t interfere because we’ve gotta do it ourselves, we’ve gotta make choices, and we can’t do that if the Father of all Father’s is looming over our shoulder. And that’s part of it, yeah, but it’s more than that, too, isn’t it?”

She has to sit up, because otherwise she’s going to choke on her own tears. Skittles spill across the hood of the Impala, and she doesn’t give a shit. “You won’t interfere because you _love us_ . All of us, even the worst of us.” She says to the sky. “Even the actual devil. Even pond scum and slime mould and every last demon. Even me, even though I’m a blasphemy, an abomination, the devil reborn.” She pauses to gasp a few wet breaths. “I always knew, you know? You weren’t there, because you’re _everywhere_. But I don’t- Sorry, Granddad, but I don’t feel very loved, right now. I know you don’t like to- to interfere, but… but I could really use a miracle right about now, and I don’t know who else to turn to.”

She waits, but of course nothing happens. The stars don’t move, the world doesn’t shift. There isn’t even a change in the wind. Meira smiles bitterly, blinking tears onto her cheeks, and pulls her knees up to wrap an arm around them and bury her face in them. She gasps for air and lets it out in silent screams, with nothing left to pray for. Somewhere in the motel, a door opens and footsteps crunch across gravel.

“Meira?”

Meira’s head jerks up. Dean is standing there, looking sleep-rumpled and a little bleary, squinting at her in concern. Then his gaze drops to the mess of sweets scattered around her, and he snorts. He shoves them more towards the middle of the hood so that he can hop up to sit beside her, and snags a pack of M&Ms out of the pile for himself. “Can’t sleep?” He asks, and there’s a veneer of carelessness to it, like it’s an idle question and he didn’t just find her bawling her eyes out in the middle of the night, but he’s asking, and he’s _there_.

 _Thanks, Granddad._ Meira thinks, as she tips over sideways to drop her head onto her dad’s shoulder. “I miss them.” She says quietly. “Never done Christmas without them before. Didn’t realise… how hard it’d hit me ‘til I got here, and suddenly it’s like I’m the last person on earth, it’s so lonely.”

There’s a long silence, but Meira doesn’t mind. She just watches the stars, and retrieves a skittle, and then starts in on the haribo. After a while, Dean shifts, but only enough to get his arm free so that he can put it around her shoulders. Meira shudders with another sob, and is so desperately glad when he doesn’t take that as a sign that he shouldn’t have done it.

“I felt the same, after Sam went to Stanford. Me and Dad were hunting separate, and Sam was gone. I knew I could just drive to Palo Alto, and he’d be there, but… That felt further than the moon, when he’d chosen to be there, instead of here.”

Meira nods a little against his shoulder, to let him know she’s listening, and she understands. “Pabbi used to dress up as Santa.” She says, sniffling and trying to put a little cheer into her voice. Pabbi didn’t so much as dress up as Santa as conjure one out of the ether for them, actually, but close enough. “And he’d have this _huge_ sack of presents, right? But he’d only leave one. The rest, he’d say, we had to get for ourselves.”

Dean bursts out laughing. “He made you steal from Santa?” He asks, delighted.

“No, he made us _hunt_ Santa.” Meira corrects, laughing a little herself. “Traps and tricks. A present would magically fall out of the sack every time we scored a ‘killing blow’.” Dean gasps out a startled curse, laughing too hard for anything else.

Once he’s calmed down a bit, he wipes at his eyes, still chuckling, and steals a few of her haribo. “Man, we never did anything that fun.” Dean bemoans, but not too seriously. “Most of the time Dad wasn’t even there for Christmas, tell you the truth, since monsters don’t stop just ‘cause it’s Christmas. One year Sammy gave me this, though.” He adds, lifting a hand to snag the cord around his neck and lift an amulet out from under his t-shirt. “Best Christmas present ever. Though, if you tell him that, I’ll put itching powder in your underwear.”

Meira catches it in the palm of her hand to draw it closer. It’s dark, but as she peers at it, she recognises it, despite never having seen the actual thing before in her life. Recognises it from her dad’s and qaada’s stories, and from some deeper well of knowledge that’s from the part of her that _should_ have been nothing more than the Angel of Thursday, the remix, and instead ended up a little bit archangel.

And maybe it’s just lingering body-heat, but it feels warm in Meira’s palm. She grins, and lets it fall. “It’s pretty awesome.” She agrees. “And my lips are sealed, I swear.”

_Love you too, Granddad._


	4. All it Takes is a Spark

**Toledo, Ohio – Saturday 14 th  January 2006**

“Now, the newspapers said his daughter found him. She said his eyes were bleeding.” Sam says.

“More than that.” The assistant replies with an indecent level of glee as he drew the sheet back away from the corpse. “They practically liquefied.”

Meira has to fight not to pull a face at the state the man’s face is in. If it weren’t for the lack of scorch marks, she would have thought… Well. There are no scorch marks. She’s honestly completely stumped by this, which doesn’t happen to her often. Angelic memory means she doesn’t really forget things, but unlike the angels that were created before time began, she does have to experience them first. And this? This is brand new to her.

“Any sign of a struggle? Like maybe somebody did it to him?” Dean asks.

“Nope. Besides the daughter he was all alone.” The assistant replies.

Which doesn’t really mean much when a good half of what they hunt is incorporeal, but it does at least rule out the other half. Maybe. She doesn’t think she’s going to be much help here. She lets the conversation about skulls full of blood and exploding eyeballs pass her by, and valiantly restrains a snort when the assistant makes them bribe him again.

She can’t really complain about his morals when their next stop is crashing a funeral. It’s the eeriest thing Meira’s ever seen, and she almost freezes in the doorway. She thought she was getting used to having her grace bound, to not being able to see people’s souls, to not knowing who they are, but this is just not something she’s prepared for. There’s no _emotion_ here.

She knows there is, of course, knows that these people are feeling just as deeply as those at any other funeral she’s ever seen, but she can’t _feel it_ , eddies of grief and sorrow heavy around her. It’s just air, hollow and empty and sickening. Swallowing hard, she follows Sam and Dean into the house, and then out back when a helpful old man points out the daughters. Meira hovers, watching Sam and Dean reassure the younger daughter that her father’s death wasn’t her fault.

Meira decides to stay downstairs while Sam and Dean go to poke around where the guy actually died. It’s a little easier for two people to be inconspicuous than three, after all, and she wants to talk to Donna and Lily a little more. She knows what it’s like to lose a parent suddenly, after all, even if hers aren’t dead. She coaxes Lily out of her guilt and gets her talking about school and her friends, and Donna gives her a painfully grateful look that Meira returns with an understanding smile.

* * *

**Toledo, Ohio – Sunday 15 th  January 2006**

Meira foregoes sleep to help with the research, but even after Sam passes out, they get nowhere. “Here’s something- Never mind.” Dean says. “Her name was _Laura_.” He rolls his eyes.

“Middle name?” Meira asks, because at this point, she’s grasping at straws.

Dean makes a thoughtful face and checks. “Middle name _Nichole_.” He reports, throwing the papers down with disgust. He stares at them for long enough that Meira goes back to ploughing through her own stack of records, so she’s startled when he asks “Hey, is Meira some sort of derivative of Mary?”

“No, actually.” Meira answers slowly, a little confused. “It’s Hebrew. It means ‘god’s light’ or ‘one who illuminates’. Mary is English, although it comes from the Hebrew name Miriam, which means ‘bitterness’.”

“Huh.” Dean grunts, and then, at her continuing look of confusion, shrugs. “Just curious. Never heard that name before.” He points out.

“Qaada picked it.” Meira tells him on impulse, and then wishes she’d just kept her mouth shut. She’s still not sure how much of her life she ought to share with him, really. It feels a little like she’s stealing from him somehow. One day, he’s going to be holding a baby in his arms, and he’s not going to tell Qaada to name her because it just feels like the right thing to do, he’s going to do it because he knows that’s how it’s supposed to happen.

Dean blinks. “Is Qaada Hebrew for ‘dad’ or something?” He asks.

“Close enough.” Meira agrees, which is as close as she can get to saying yes without outright lying.

Dean is distracted from questioning her further when Sam wakes up with a gasp. “Why’d you let me fall asleep?” He asks, voice raspy and hollowed out.

“Cause I’m an awesome brother.” Dean retorts. “So what’d you dream about?”

“Lollipops and candy canes.” Sam answers, completely flat.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Sure.”

“You find anything?” Sam asks, when Dean doesn’t offer up an alternative topic of conversation. Dean catches him up on their complete lack of anything substantial, and Meira looks back down at her stack of papers.

“Whatever’s happening here, maybe it just ain’t Mary.” Dean suggests.

“Or maybe it’s new.” Meira offers, only to be interrupted by Sam’s phone ringing. Dean arches an eyebrow at her while Sam locates his phone, and Meira shrugs. “Look, you said yourself that this myth isn’t particularly rigid. There’s a lot of variations.” She points out as Sam answers his phone. Dean nods. “Well, then, maybe this is just another variation. Maybe her spirit went dormant for some reason, and we don’t have records far enough back? Maybe she’s not actually dead, she’s in a coma or a potential psychic with a fuck-tonne of issues?” Meira gestures vaguely in the air to indicate an entire world of possibilities, and Dean pulls a duck-face of annoyed acceptance.

“That was Charlie.” Sam says, flipping his phone closed. “She said there’s something she thinks we need to hear about.”

“Charlie?” Meira asks, although she’s already putting the records aside and grabbing up her coat.

“One of Donna’s friends.” Dean tells her, grabbing his keys and starting for the door. “She caught us checking out the bathroom and threatened to scream if we didn’t tell her the truth about who we are and what we were doing there.”

“Oh, awesome. I like her.” Meira announces in delight.

Dean snorts. “Yeah, she was pretty freaking ballsy.”

“I told her to call us if she saw or heard anything weird or unusual.” Sam adds as they climb into the Impala. “She sounded really freaked out on the phone.”

The meet Charlie on a public green, and she tells them about Jill’s death in between trying not to cry. About half way through the explanation, Meira gives in, sits down beside her, and puts an arm around her shoulders. Charlie glances at her, tries for a smile that doesn’t really work, and finishes up her explanation. “And they found her on the bathroom floor, and, uh- her- her _eyes_ , they were- g- _gone_.”

“I’m sorry.” Sam murmurs.

“And she _said it_.” Charlie adds in a rush, as though pushing herself to get the words out before she falters. “I heard her say it. But it couldn’t be because of that. I’m- insane, right?” It’s almost a plea.

Meira remembers what happened last time she dropped that bomb on someone, and looks to Sam, eyebrows raised. This time, she’s leaving it up to him so he can’t bite her head off later. Sam looks back, lips pursed and resignation written all over his face.

“No, you’re not insane.” Dean says, when neither Meira or Sam move to actually reassure the girl.

“Oh, god.” Charlie breathes. “That makes me feel so much worse.”

Meira gives her a comforting squeeze. “At least now you know there _is_ an explanation.” She points out, and Charlie looks at her with her brow all crumpled up in distress and confusion. “People aren’t just dropping dead for no reason. Something is doing this, and we can stop it.” Charlie does seem to take some comfort in that, sniffling and nodding.

“We could use your help with that.” Dean adds, and after a moment of wide-eyed staring, Charlie nods again.

Then she helps them break into a teenage girl’s room. A dead teenage girl’s room, but still. Ballsy as hell. Sam asks her how she managed to get the room to herself, and she explains the lie she spun for Jill’s mom. “I hate lying to her.” She mutters.

“But you’re good at it.” Meira comments, and Charlie shoots her a stricken look. Meira winces. “That was meant to be a compliment, I swear. You’re confident, not just ‘you know how to act confident’, but you knew what you needed to do, and you did it, no matter how distasteful. Takes a strong person to hold onto that sort of conviction.”

“Oh, I guess.” Charlie hedges, shrinking in on herself a little. “I just don’t want anybody else to get hurt, that’s all.” Meira gives her a pointed smile, and waits for her to realise all by herself exactly what she just said. Charlie blushes when she catches up.

“So I don’t get it.” Sam says suddenly while checking the mirror for ectoplasmic residue. “I mean, the first victim _didn’t_ summon Mary, and the second victim _did_. How’s she choosing them?”

“Beats me.” Dean replies, then glances at Charlie. “I want to know why Jill said it in the first place.”

“It was just a joke.” Charlie says, uncomfortable and defensive.

“A joke?” Meira echoes incredulously.

Charlie looks at her and then away. “We were talking on the phone, and she- I don’t know, she thought it was funny that I was… that I thought it might have been something…” She trails off uncomfortably.

“She was mocking you.” Meira realises, unimpressed.

“No!” Charlie says at once, and then falters. “Well, maybe a little, but… God, it would have been kind of funny if it wasn’t _real_.” She complains, wrapping her arms around herself and looking miserable.

Meira has her doubts about that, but she doesn’t voice them. “Yeah, well,” Dean sounds sceptical too, but he doesn’t push the subject either, “somebody’s going to say it again, it’s just a matter of time.” He points out ominously.

“Hey.” Sam says, leaning out of the bathroom. “There’s a blacklight in the trunk, right?”

They get the blacklight, and find a name written on the back of the bathroom mirror. Meira’s going to go out on a limb here and say that’s probably a clue. So then it’s off to the library to research the name, and Charlie tags along. This turns out to be a good thing when she figures out the connection between Jill and the name Mary had written on the girl’s mirror.

“We need to go back to your friend Donna’s house.” Dean says, and off they go.

Finding the man’s _wife’s_ name on the back of the mirror is kind of sickening, and Donna clearly doesn’t like the implications of their questions, either. “Yeah, Linda’s my mom, okay? And she overdosed on sleeping pills. It was an accident and that’s _it_.” She insists. The silence following that pronouncement is damning, and Donna can hear it too. “I think you should leave.”

“Do you really believe that?” Meira asks, before she can push the issue.

Donna rounds on her, furious and scared. “What are you trying to say?!”

“I’m saying that even if you’re right, and she took those pills herself, I’d really like to know why she was taking enough to risk an overdose.” Meira points out calmly.

Donna blanches. “No.” She insists. “No, stop it. My dad’s _dead_ , and you-”

“Sins don’t get erased by death.” Meira counters. Donna lets out a choked sob, shaking her head in denial, but Meira holds her gaze and refuses to let her. After a brief struggle with herself, Donna breaks down into tears, and Meira carefully draws her into a hug, checking every step of the way that Donna wants the comfort.

After several awkward minutes, Dean clears his throat. “You gonna be okay here if we head back to the motel?” He asks Meira. “I think we’ve got some research to do.”

“Yeah.” Meira assures him. Dean and Sam linger awkwardly a moment longer, then go.

Meira and Charlie eventually manage to herd Donna into the living room, get her sitting down with a glass of water and some tissues, and let her cry it out. “My dad _wouldn’t_ -!” comes out several times, followed by more tears. Meira doesn’t bother to point out that if Donna had been certain of that, she wouldn’t be this upset by the notion.

Eventually, she cries herself out, and Charlie suggests putting on a movie. Donna nods listlessly, so Charlie bounds up and sticks on a cartoon that Donna gives her a judging look for. Charlie looks away. “I didn’t think a rom-com would be the best idea right now.” She points out quietly, and Donna looks away, something caught between rage and grief on her face.

Five minutes into the movie, Donna curls up around a cushion and falls asleep, obviously worn out by her grief. Meira and Charlie share a look over her, and then stay right where they are. Donna’s alone enough already, they’re not going to leave her to wake up alone, too. Charlie goes to get a blanket, and Meira refills the glass of water, ready for when Donna wakes up.

The movie is almost over when Meira’s phone rings, and she fishes it out, expecting it to be Sam or Dean. It’s not, it’s Haley. Eyebrows rising, Meira answers. “Hey, what’s up?” She asks lightly.

“Hey.” Haley answers, weirdly hesitant. Meira’s just about to ask what’s wrong more seriously, when Haley abruptly blurts out “How do you tell if a house is haunted?”

Ah. Meira has to grin a little, and gets up to wander into the kitchen so that she’s not interrupting the movie for Charlie. “My first stop would be checking for EMF. Get a reader, scan the place, and if it goes off like you’re standing next to a wireless router when you’re not, you’ve probably got a ghost. Why?”

“A friend of mine, she’s just moved into this new house, and… things keep moving about on their own, and she keeps getting into accidents. She’s a gymnast, she’s _not_ that clumsy.” Haley insists.

“Sounds like it could maybe be a poltergeist.” Meira tells her, grimacing.

“Poltergeist? That’s different from a ghost?” Haley asks, sounding a touch incredulous.

“Yeah. Ghosts are people who refused to move on for one reason or another, but since human souls aren’t meant to linger without a body to protect them, they tend to… degrade over time, even if they’re not vengeful to start with. Poltergeists are… accumulations of energy. Usually negative, but I did find a poltergeist in a hospital, once, that manifested because of a bunch of miraculous recoveries. It went around healing people.”

“Oh, wow.” Haley says, and she sounds like she’s smiling, just a little bit. “So, how do I tell the difference, and what do I do about it once I know?” She asks, getting back to the practical issues without missing a beat. Meira really wishes she’d gotten the chance to kiss her.

“It can be a bit hit and miss telling the difference.” Meira admits with a grimace. “If it’s a ghost, it’s probably someone who died there, or who lived there for a _really_ long time. You’ll have to find out who, and then salt and burn their bones.”

There’s an indrawn breath, and then Haley lets the breath out slowly. “That’s disgusting.” She announces, sounding more matter-of-fact than outright disgusted.

Meira snorts. “Yeah, it is.” She agrees, then sobers up a little. “Look, we’re in the middle of a job right now, but if you want we can come by once we’ve sorted this out and see if we can help?” She offers.

“No. It’s fine.” Haley assures her. “There’s no reason I can’t do it myself. I’m not that squeamish.” She announces, and Meira’s fond grin is back. “So, if it’s a ghost, salt and burn the bones, but if it’s a poltergeist?” Haley challenges.

“Poltergeists are more difficult. You’ll need a purification ritual, or a hell of a lot of the exact opposite kind of metaphysical energy to cancel it out, but that’s basically impossible unless you have a psychic about to tell you what kind of poltergeist it is. If you’ve got a pen, I can give you a basic recipe.” She offers.

“Hang on a minute,” Haley says, and then, once she’s presumably found herself a pen, “go on.” So Meira does, listing out the herbs and other ingredients needed, and adding in the instructions of how to purify a house. “Okay, thanks.” Haley says once she’s done. “Now how do I figure out which it is?”

“Best guess?” Meira offers, and Haley makes an annoyed sound. “Uh, poltergeists don’t tend to cause cold spots. If you ever see a human-like apparition, it’s a ghost. If it _is_ a poltergeist, and it’s already trying to hurt someone, there will be some sort of atrocity in the history of the place to cause it.”

“Alright.” Haley agrees. “I’ll figure it out.”

“You took on a wendigo. Poltergeists aren’t gonna phase you.” Meira reminds her fondly.

Haley laughs. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

They say quick goodbyes, and then Meira hangs up and turns to go back into the living room, only to find Charlie leaning in the doorway, her eyes a bit wide. “All that stuff is really out there, isn’t it?” Charlie asks, sounding dazed.

Meira nods. “Yeah. And a hell of a lot more, besides.”

“God.” Charlie breathes, closing her eyes. “That’s terrifying.”

“It’s the same world you were living in yesterday.” Meira reminds her. Charlie gives her a look, and Meira shrugs. “Look, if you want someone to pretend it’s all a ghost story and there’s no monsters under the bed, you’ve got the wrong girl. Try giving Sam a call.” She advises dryly.

“I don’t want that.” Charlie insists straight away, and then sighs. “It’s just scary, that’s all.”

“Yeah.” Meira agrees.

“And you just… go around _looking_ for it?” Charlie asks abruptly, incredulous. Meira shrugs and nods, and Charlie gapes at her. “Why?”

It’s a good question. Meira’s never lived the true hunter lifestyle before. Sure, she’s gone on the occasional hunt with her dad, and she’s run into more than her fair share of monsters, but that wasn’t because she’d gone looking for them. They’d all come looking for her. And now she’s only tagging along with Sam and Dean because she has nowhere else in the world to belong. So instead of answering for herself, she thinks about some of the things her dad has said about why he hunts. “Because someone has to.” She settles on finally. “There are monsters out there, Charlie, and someone needs to stop them before they hurt any more people. Most people don’t even believe they’re real, and so they don’t know how to protect themselves. So we protect them.”

Charlie nods slowly, staring at the floor and chewing on her lower lip. Meira gives her the time she needs to process, and is impressed when she suddenly looks up, steel in her eyes. “Teach me.” She says. “That’s what you were doing, wasn’t it? With whoever was on the phone. Teaching them how to protect themselves. I don’t want to die because I didn’t know better than to avoid something.”

Meira beams at her, inordinately proud of her for even thinking of it, never mind outright asking. “Sure. I probably won’t be sticking around long enough to do more than give you the bare basics, but if you give me your number, you can text me any questions you have.” She offers, and Charlie nods. So they exchange numbers, and then they sit down to talk about the most basic protections, the most common supernatural problems, and what to do about them.

* * *

**Toledo, Ohio – Monday 16 th  January 2006**

They’re on the way back from Fort Wayne when Charlie calls Meira. She’s expecting questions about what they talked about yesterday, what she gets instead is a desperate sob and a whispered “Oh, God, she’s _here,_ ” that sends a chill down her spine.

“Charlie?” Meira calls, sitting bolt upright in the back seat.

“Bloody Mary, she’s- Donna said it, and- and she’s coming for me.” Charlie blurts out in a rush, voice shaking, followed by a whimper.

“What’s going on?” Dean demands.

“Okay, Charlie, here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to sit down, take a breath, and _close your eyes_.” Meira orders, keeping her voice as calm as she can. In the front, Dean swears, and floors the gas pedal. “Can you do that for me?”

“Y-yeah.” Charlie stammers.

“Good. Now, tell me where you are, and we’ll come get you.” Meira instructs.

“Outside school.” Charlie breathes. “I- I saw her in- she’s _everywhere_. In- in windows and the t-teacher’s _glasses_.”

Well, that’s not terrifying _at all._ Jesus. “That’s why you’re keeping your eyes closed, okay.” Meira soothes. “Now, are you somewhere public? Will other people see you and try to move you?”

“N-no. There’s a- an alley, between two of the houses across the street. No windows, so I-”

“Good, that was smart.” Meira compliments. “Do you think you can tell me how this happened? Why on earth did Donna say it?”

She hears Charlie take a deep, shuddering breath. “She- she was asking about… about why- why you guys were asking about- about her mom, and she- I tried to explain, but she got so mad, she said- said that you’d ‘made her think all that awful stuff’ for no reason, and how dare I go along with-” Charlie cuts off her explanation with a sob, and Meira murmurs a few soothing encouragements. “I told her it wasn’t for no reason, that- that _she_ had gone after her dad instead of Lily for a reason, and she scoffed, and- and then she said it, like-”

“Like she was proving it wasn’t real.” Meira concludes, thinking, uncharitably, that Donna Shoemaker deserves a trickster’s attention for that. Grief or no grief, it’s a shitty thing to risk a friend’s life just to maintain your own blissfully ignorant illusion. And of course, they’re going to make damn sure Mary doesn’t kill Charlie, and so Donna is going to go on thinking she’s vindicated herself. Oh, yeah, Meira _really_ wants to sick Pabbi on her.

Biting back her anger, Meira puts her hand over the bottom of her phone to ask Dean “How long?”

“Fifteen minutes.” Dean says grimly.

Meira nods, and goes back to reassuring Charlie. She keeps her on the phone the whole time, talking her through the panic. Once they get back to Toledo, she alternates between reassurances to Charlie and directions to Dean. They pick Charlie up, and Meira guides her into the car while making sure she keeps her eyes closed. Then they take her back to the motel and do their best to cover up every reflective surface in Meira’s room.

Sam sits next to Charlie on the bed while Dean throws a towel over the TV, and Meira tacks up a sheet over the stupid frosted glass divider that serves absolutely no purpose but to be annoying in a situation like this. Meira honestly contemplated just smashing it. “Hey.” Sam says once Meira’s done. “Hey, it’s okay. You can open up your eyes, Charlie. It’s okay. Alright. Now listen. You’re going to stay right here, on this bed, and you’re not going to look at glass, or anything else that has a reflection, okay? Now, as long as you do that, she cannot get you.”

“But I can’t keep that up forever.” Charlie retorts, quiet but certain. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?”

“No.” Sam insists. “No, not anytime soon.”

Meira goes to sit next to Charlie, crawling right into the middle of the bed and putting an arm around her. “We’re going to stop her, Charlie.” She adds, and when Charlie looks at her imploringly, she gives her a reassuring smile. “Remember? This is what we do.” Swallowing hard, Charlie nods, and sits a little straighter.

“Alright, Charlie.” Dean says, perching on the end of the bed. “We need to know what happened.”

“We were in the bathroom, Donna said-” Charlie begins.

“That’s not what we’re talking about.” Dean interrupts. “Something happened, didn’t it? In your life. A secret. Someone got hurt.” Charlie blinks and sends tears cascading down onto her cheeks. Dean shares a look with Sam before pressing on, gentler than before. “Can you tell us about it?”

Charlie’s lip starts trembling, but when she starts talking, her voice is strong. “I had this boyfriend. I loved him, but he kinda scared me too, you know? And, one night, at his house, we got in this fight. And I broke up with him. And he got upset, and he said he needed me, and he loved me. And he said ‘Charlie, if you walk out that door right now, I’m going to kill myself.’ And do you know what I said? I said ‘go ahead’ and I left.”

“Good.” Meira says it before she can stop herself, and is aware of everyone’s eyes snapping to her in shock. God, she’s actually a little glad, for once, that Jace _isn’t_ here, because if she’s this angry, Jace probably _would_ go and find Charlie’s ex’s soul, and if he isn’t there already, deliver him directly to Hell, personally.

“What?” Charlie breathes.

Meira looks at her, and sees all the pain and guilt she’s been carrying around because of some asshole who tried to make his own life and his own choices her responsibility. “Charlie, his life was not your responsibility, and he had no right to lay that on you.”

“But I-” Charlie begins, and then falters.

“No, listen to me.” Meira insists, kneeling up and turning Charlie to face her fully. “That was _his_ choice to make, not yours. He tried to chain you to him by making you feel responsible for his life and his actions, and you were _right_ to do what you needed to, to free yourself. Just because his threat was aimed at himself, instead of someone _else_ you love, doesn’t make it any less a threat. The fact that he followed through because you didn’t give him what he wanted is on _him_ , not on you.”

“I-” Charlie says again, and then her expression crumples, and she starts to cry in earnest. “I didn’t want him to _die_.” She says, desperate.

Meira pulls her into her arms. “I know. It’s not your fault.”

“She’s right, it’s not.” Dean adds. Then he clears his throat, a hard, almost angry look on his face, and gets up. “Right, let’s go gank this bitch already.” He says, and Sam gets up immediately. Dean glances at Meira when she doesn’t move. “Meira?”

“I’ll stay here with Charlie.” Meira replies. “Keep her safe.”

“No.” Charlie says quietly, voice ragged. “You should go. It’s not like there’s anything you can- can really do here, anyway.”

Meira looks at her, impressed again by the strength in her. “I can keep you company.” She points out. “That’s important, too. Sam and Dean can handle this bitch, no problem.” She points out, and Charlie almost manages a smile, ducking her head in a way that’s not quite a nod, but that Meira takes as agreement anyway. She’s not leaving Charlie to sit here, alone in a dark room, with nothing to do but contemplate her douchebag ex and her impending death. No way.

“Hells yeah we can.” Dean agrees before heading out the door with Sam on his heels.

* * *

**Toledo, Ohio – Tuesday 17 th  January 2006**

Once it’s all over, Meira takes Charlie shopping. She tells Sam and Dean she wants to do something nice for her after the last few days, and Sam and Dean agree to leave that evening, instead of in the morning. They don’t have another hunt lined up yet anyway, so there’s no trouble with taking a day of down-time. She doesn’t tell them that it’s not clothes they’re shopping for. Well, not just clothes. They do get Charlie a nice leather jacket and some jeans that are easier to move in than her usual.

They go to a jewellery store and commission an anti-possession charm. Charlie will have to pick it up herself in a couple of weeks time, but it’s on its way, and that seems to make her feel better. They buy meters and meters of plastic tubing and a giant bag of rock-salt from a hardware store, along with a pocket knife, and then go poking around a dozen antique stores until they find a pure iron fire poker and a sterling silver cutlery set. They also buy her a rosary, along with a bottle of water that Meira blesses for her.

“I thought you needed to be ordained to make holy water.” Charlie remarks as they’re leaving the store, considering her new rosary with a slightly pinched expression.

“You might.” Meira acknowledges with a shrug. She honestly has no idea if just her blessing, without her grace being able to reach out and touch Charlie’s soul, would be enough, but Charlie certainly has it. “But best to have a rosary on hand anyway, just in case. Besides, as long as you’re careful, that bottle could last you forever.” Charlie looks at the simple one litre bottle, and then arches a sceptical eyebrow at Meira. “No, really.” Meira assures her, grinning. “Add more water and it becomes holy water, too. As long as you have some left, you can make it last forever.”

While they’re searching thrift stores for a decent rug with a pentacle on it, Charlie’s phone rings. She takes one look at the display, and her expression closes off. “Who-?” Meira asks softly.

“Donna.” Charlie answers, then takes a breath, and answers it, but doesn’t speak first.

Meira unashamedly boosts her hearing to eavesdrop. “…Charlie?”

“Yeah?” Charlie answers, level, not cold, but not overly warm, either.

“Oh, thank god.” Donna sighs. “Your mom called, she said you didn’t come home last night, and I heard that you’d _freaked out_ at school yesterday.” She explains. “You’re okay, right?” Charlie’s lips thin and her jaw works as she tries several times to speak, and fails each time. “Charlie?” Donna prompts, voice going high with worry.

“Why do you care?” Charlie suddenly bursts out.

“What?” Donna replies, and then, after a beat. “Oh my god, Charlie, just because we had a fight yesterday doesn’t mean I want you to- to have some sort of _episode_ and throw yourself in front of a car or something! Jesus!”

“You nearly got me _killed_ yesterday!” Charlie retorts loudly, and then casts an embarrassed look around. Thankfully, there’s no one else in the store except the clerk, and they’re studiously pretending not to be able to hear anything.

“No, I didn’t. It’s not _real,_ Charlie.” Donna retorts scornfully.

“The _only_ reason I’m _not_ lying in a pool of my own blood with my eyes _gouged out_ just like your dad-” Donna sucks in a sharp breath. “-is because those ‘freaks’ risked their lives to save me. You-” Charlie cuts herself off and closes her eyes.

Donna scoffs. “If that’s true, who did _you_ kill?” She bites out.

Charlie flinches, like she was no doubt meant to. Meira puts a hand on her arm, and when Charlie’s eyes flick up to meet hers, she says quietly “It doesn’t need to be a secret. You didn’t do anything wrong. But you don’t owe her anything, either.”

Charlie nods once, takes a shaking breath, and says “Did you know that Mark threatened to kill himself if I broke up with him?” in a surprisingly even tone, even though her eyes have gone glassy with unshed tears. “I broke up with him anyway.”

Donna is silent for a very, very long time. “Wow, what a dick.” She says finally, and Charlie laughs like it’s been startled out of her. She sniffs once and wipes at her eyes. There’s another, shorter silence. “I suppose you think this means that Lily _is_ to blame for our dad’s death, then, huh?” She asks, bitterly angry and scared underneath.

“Oh my god, Donna, no. Lily was playing a stupid game with her friends, she didn’t know it was dangerous.” There’s a pause, and then Charlie adds, viciously, “You _did_. I _told_ you it was dangerous, and you did it anyway, even though you _knew_ it wasn’t just your own life on the line.”

Another silence. “What do you want me to say?” Donna asks resentfully.

“That you’re _sorry_?!” Charlie bursts out. “That you won’t do it again?! That you understand that, oh my god, even if you _still_ don’t believe me, _I_ believe it, and it’s a _shitty_ thing to do to scare me just to, what? I don’t even know. And that if I tell you ‘hey, maybe don’t do that, it’s dangerous’ again, next time, you’ll _listen_?!”

“Yeah. Okay.” Donna says quietly.

Charlie waits. Donna doesn’t say anything else. “ _Well_?!” Charlie snaps.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry, okay?!” Donna snaps back.

Meira wonders if maybe now would be a good opportunity to test out manifesting her wings. Perhaps a little solid proof would go a long way to improving Donna’s attitude. She’s still debating whether it’s a good idea or not when Charlie sighs. “Yeah, okay.” She says tiredly. “See you Monday, Donna.”

“Yeah, see you.” Donna agrees, and then Charlie hangs up on her. She stands there, staring at her phone for several minutes, looking torn and upset.

“I could probably show her proof, if you want.” Meira offers.

Charlie visibly thinks about it, but then shakes her head. “No. I don’t know. She’s made it pretty clear she doesn’t _want_ to know, hasn’t she?”

Meira tips her head in acknowledgement of that, and then lets the subject drop. “Come on, Buffy, we’ve got rugs to buy.” She says instead, and Charlie snorts at the nickname, but she looks pleased, too, and Meira takes that as a win.


	5. Burn it Down to Feel its Warmth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch me slow-roast theology for the juicy bits =P
> 
> (Chapter title is apparently paraphrased from a poem I've never read, though the quote often gets misatributed as an african proverb; "A child that is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth.")

**St Louis, Missouri – Friday 3 rd  March 2006 **

“Oh my god. Sam!” The woman who opens the door is pretty, sharp-featured and bleach blonde. Meira tries not to grimace, because she remembers her dad telling this story, usually starting with ‘so, the _first_ time I died was when…’ because he thought he was hilarious, and if she’s remembering right, Becky gets tortured at some point.

“Well, if it isn’t little Becky.” Sam greets, and Becky’s eyes narrow playfully.

“You know what you can do with that ‘little Becky’ crap.” She warns him, and then relents with a laugh and hugs him.

“I got your email.” Sam explains as they let go.

Becky looks baffled. “I didn’t think that you would come here.”

Dean sticks his hand out around Sam. “Dean.” He introduces. “Older brother.” Meira elbows him when it seems like that’s all he’s going to say. “And this is Meira, a friend.” He adds, shooting Meira a look, to which she smiles winsomely, and shakes Becky’s hand as well.

“We’re here to help.” Sam explains. “Whatever we can do.”

Becky invites them in and explains the situation at a little prompting from Sam. She says the magic words, ‘two places at once’, and Meira tries not to sigh. She ought to let this play out as it did in her own history, but one look at Becky and knowing what’s coming for her is enough to convince her that she’s not going to be able to. Sitting back and letting people suffer when she could help is just not in her nature. It’s those pesky Winchester genes, or something.

Sam lies his lying ass off about Dean’s profession, and Meira winces. It convinces Becky, but Meira doesn’t like it any more than Dean seems to. She’s going to find out about the supernatural eventually, and really, better it be sooner, so that she’s forewarned and forearmed. She watches Becky head off to go and fetch the keys, and thinks that she even has a possible solution to the proof problem. She’s about seventy percent sure she could do it.

Dean whistles once Becky’s out of sight. “Oh, yeah, man. You’re a real straight-shooter with your friends.” He drawls sarcastically.

Meira has never had that problem herself. Azura, of course, is just as much of an oddity as Meira herself, and the rest of her friends are hunters, hunter-adjacent, or ‘monsters’, and the kids she met going to school were never close enough for her to struggle with the dilemma. “Look.” Sam says, low and straining for patience. “Zach and Becky need our help.” He insists.

“I just-” Dean begins, and Meira decides that she’s not going to stand here and listen to this argument again. They’ve already had it twice in the car.

She raps her knuckles on the table briskly and says “I’m going to take a piss.” in the most blatant ‘let me get out of the way of your sibling bickering’ tone she can manage, and heads off after Becky, shedding her coat and draping it over one arm along the way. She finds her rummaging around in an office, and leans against the doorway. “Hey.” She says, wondering how best to lead up to this. She doesn’t want to get Becky suspicious and then be unable to follow through on the proof.

“Oh, hey, did you want something?” Becky asks, glancing up but not pausing in her search.

“Yeah, can I ask you a question?” Meira asks slowly, figuring she’ll fill in with some sort of inquiry about Sam if she can’t do this.

Something about her tone must catch Becky’s attention, because she straightens slowly, watching Meira with a faint frown. “Yeah, sure?” She offers uncertainly.

Meira pushes away from the wall, and carefully, waiting for warning pains every inch of the way, unfurls her wings. She knows it’s worked the moment Becky gasps and staggers back, putting one hand out to steady herself on the desk while the other flies up to cover her mouth. This is why Meira’s always favoured backless tops, or those awesome tank-tops where the top half of the back is nothing more than a Y-shaped strip of fabric. She lost a few too many t-shirts as a kid to trying to manifest her wings without making sure there wasn’t anything in the way. And oh, but it feels so damn good to stretch her wings after so damn long.

She knows they’re impressive. Because of the way she was born, she’s never fit very neatly into ‘angel’ or ‘human’ categories. She’s caught somewhere between the two, while being wholly both. And that’s caused her no end of grief, but in this area, it’s something she appreciates. Her wings are corporeal, unlike Qaada’s and Pabbi’s. White on the underside and mottled shades of gold and tawny and bronze on the top, they stretch to a wingspan a little more than twice her height when fully spread. She can’t do that inside, but she gives them a little shake to emphasise their presence and to make sure her feathers are lying straight, and smiles. “Do you believe in angels?”

“Oh my god.” Becky gasps.

“Not quite.” Meira says cheekily, and then laughs at herself. “Sorry, sorry. Shit, that was such a dad joke.” One of Pabbi’s favourites, in fact.

Becky gapes at her. “I- I’m seeing things.” She insists with a waver in her voice.

Meira sobers up. “No, Becky, you’re not. They’re real.” She arches her wings forward over her shoulders. “You can touch them if you want.” She offers, and Becky almost whimpers. But she does edge forwards and reach out a tentative hand. She sucks in a sharp breath when her fingers first make contact, and Meira closes her eyes as Becky starts petting the leading edge of her wing.

“You’re- you’re an- an _angel_?” Becky whispers.

“More or less.” Meira agrees on a sigh, forcing her eyes open and settling her wings behind her back before she goes completely boneless under Becky’s petting. She leaves them out though, even with the risk of Sam and Dean coming looking for them and seeing them, because she’s pretty sure Becky needs the reminder that they’re there and real.

“More or less?” Becky echoes incredulously.

“I can give you the full theology lesson later, okay?” Meira offers. “Right now, we don’t have a lot of time before Sam and Dean stop arguing and wonder where we are, and I… don’t want them to know what I am yet.” She admits, trying not to think about it.

Becky’s gaze sharpens. “Why not?”

“Because…” Meira sighs. “Because Dean isn’t a cop.” She says, and Becky frowns deeply. “He and Sam hunt monster for a living, more or less, and…” She has to swallow, because she’s tried so hard _not_ to think about it, but even the _idea_ of her dad looking at her and seeing something to hunt makes her feel sick. Terrified and betrayed and _gutted_. Even though she knows he’s not _her dad_ yet, it would still be just about the worst thing she can imagine. “I don’t want them to think they might need to hunt me.”

“But you’re an _angel_.” Becky protests warily.

“Angels aren’t always friendly to people.” Meira reminds her. “And Sam and Dean Winchester are, if nothing else, staunch defenders of humanity against any supernatural forces that might threaten them.” She points out wryly.

Becky opens her mouth, and then falters. “Wait, Sam lied to me?” She asks, crossing her arms in indignation.

Meira grins a little. “Yeah, but… can you really blame him?” She asks pointedly. “If I hadn’t offered you proof first, would you have believed me when I told you the supernatural exists?”

Becky purses her lips. “No.” She acknowledges, even as her eyes leave Meira’s face to track over her wings again. “So… why are _you_ telling me? You said you don’t want them to know, so why risk telling anyone?” She challenges.

“Because Sam thinks, and I think, that there may be more than meets the eye going on here.” Meira points out, watching Becky closely. “You said it yourself, Zach would have had to have been in two places at once. Maybe he was. Or at least, maybe something made it look like he was.” Becky goes pale, and her hand comes back up to cover her mouth. “And since you’re obviously going to be involved in our investigation, you need to know what’s going on, or you could stumble into something nasty all unaware.”

Becky nods slowly, then frowns again. “What do I tell Sam, then? About how I know?”

“You can tell him I told you.” Meira assures. “He won’t be that surprised.”

“He’ll be surprised I believed you, though.” Becky counters. “If I can’t tell him…” She gestures vaguely at Meira’s wings, and then seems to realise what she’s gesturing at and starts looking less sanguine about the whole thing.

Meira shrugs. “So, don’t tell him anything. Play along. By the time he figures it out, there’ll be enough proof that you won’t need to make some up for how you were convinced.”

Becky snorts. “That’d serve him right.” She huffs. Then she bows her head and starts massaging her eyes like she’s getting a headache. “So-” She begins, and then they hear Sam calling worriedly for Becky. She looks up sharply, just in time to see Meira tuck her wings away again. Becky goes back to looking for the keys, and Meira starts pulling her coat back on like everything is no big deal, just as Sam comes around the corner.

“Everything okay, Becks?” He asks, frowning worriedly.

Becky nods. “Yeah, just-” She shakes her head. “Scatterbrained lately.” She admits.

Sam nods understandingly. “Yeah, of course.”

“Aha!” Becky says triumphantly barely a minute later, coming up with the keys. “Okay, let’s go.”

They all pile into the car, Becky and Meira in the back, and more than once, Meira catches Becky looking over at her in disbelief. Once, when Becky realises she’s been caught, she mouths ‘where?’ at Meira, and oh, boy, that sort of metaphysics is not something Meira can convey in pantomime. So she mouths ‘later’ back at her, and Becky nods in resigned disbelief.

She doesn’t seem any more settled by the time they reach Zach’s house. “You’re sure this is okay?” She asks.

“Yeah.” Dean says, tone edging towards flat. “I am an officer of the law.”

Becky opens her mouth, stops, and just nods. Then she casts a look over at Meira, who smiles encouragingly. For some reason, that seems to bolster her confidence a little, and she nods again, more certainly, and they all start across the street.

The crime scene in Zach’s house is not actually the worst thing Meira’s ever seen; she’s seen her dad behead vampires, after all, and that’s a pretty gory affair. It’s still not a pleasant thing to look at, so much blood splattered about the place, especially knowing it came from someone innocent. Becky mentions stolen clothes, and the newly aggressive dog, which all slot in nicely with Meira’s knowledge of what’s actually behind this.

They go back to Becky’s parents’ house to review the security tapes, and Meira decides she and Becky are really not needed for this. “Well, Becky, what do you say we leave this to the professional?” She says, giving Dean a pointed look, which earns her a pissy glower. Then she turns to Becky with a salacious grin. “Besides, I believe you promised me a _full_ tour of the house?”

Becky’s eyebrows rise sharply, and then she laughs, and shakes her head. “I suppose I did.” She agrees, and then jerks her head towards the doorway before turning that way. She allows Meira to drape an arm around her shoulders as they go, and behind them, they can hear Dean muttering a curse.

“How come she’s always landing the hot chicks?” He complains.

“Because she’s got better game than you.” Sam replies in a tone that suggests he’s barely even paying attention, and Becky has to muffle her laughter in her fist at Dean’s outraged squawk. They head up to Becky’s room, but the moment the door’s shut, the amusement drops right off Becky’s face, and she looks at Meira with confusion writ large across her face.

“So, theology one-oh-one.” Meira begins, stealing Becky’s desk chair and sitting on it backwards. “God is real, angels exist, and it’s not actually as easy to get into Hell as preachers want you to believe.” She summarises. Becky sits down hard on the side of her bed.

“Can you… I’m sorry, but I just- the wings?” Becky asks desperately. Meira smiles, and leans back to shrug out of her coat and manifest her wings again. It’s so nice to have an excuse. “Oh my god.” Becky says again. “That- that really happened.”

“That really happened.” Meira confirms.

Becky nods. “What did you mean when you said you’re ‘more or less’ an angel?”

Meira blows out a breath. “There are many different classes of angel and angelic beings.” Meira begins. “Some, you probably know just from popular culture. Archangels, cherubim, seraphim, nephilim. Right?” She checks, and Becky nods. “Well, I just about smash all those distinctions into smithereens and set the pieces on fire with my mere existence. And, uh, if heaven knew I existed, they would call me an abomination.”

Becky’s eyebrows fly up. “Well, that’s… reassuring.” She mutters, in a tone that is anything but.

“Welcome to my life.” Meira replies wryly.

Silence draws out as Becky adjusts and Meira waits for her to figure out what to ask next. Instead, she buries her face in her hands with a slightly hysterical laugh. “I stopped going to church when I was fourteen because I decided it was contradictory rubbish, and now you’re telling me it’s all true?” She asks, voice muffled by her palms.

“That depends what you mean by true.” Meira counters, and Becky looks up. “I don’t blame you for not going to church, they’ve got most of it wrong anyway, and yeah, god, don’t get me started on the contradictions. ‘God is loving and benign, but he’ll condemn you to eternal torment if you do something he doesn’t like’?” Meira blows a raspberry to show what she thinks of that, and Becky laughs again. “Angels exist, and demons exist. Heaven and Hell exist, but reincarnation is also a thing that happens. There is a sentient force that created everything, some people call it God, some people call it Yahweh, or Jehovah, or Allah. I call it Granddad.” Becky nearly chokes trying not to laugh at that, so Meira decides to go for broke. “My dad calls it ‘That Asshole’.” Becky gives up the fight and laughs, scandalised and delighted.

“Okay, okay.” She gasps out, clutching her sides and shaking her head at Meira. “I think I get your point.” She agrees.

“It’s not there to judge you, bless you, or condemn you. It just is, and it loves you exactly as you are.” Meira tells her, putting every ounce of sincerity she has into it. Becky’s smile wobbles slightly, and she blinks rapidly. “It gave you this universe, and the freedom to choose what to do with it.”

“Oh.” Becky says quietly, and wipes at her eyes. Meira gives her a minute. “So what do you think happened here? With Zach?”

“My money’s on a shapeshifter.” Meira tells her, going with the subject change without a blink.

“A shapeshifter? Like a werewolf?” Becky asks, frowning.

“Might be the same subcategory of supernatural beastie, but no, werewolves and shapeshifters aren’t the same thing. Neither are werewolves and lycanthropes, actually. Shapeshifters are… people who can change their face to any that they’ve seen before.”

Becky sucks in a sharp breath. “You think that’s what did this to Emily?” She asks.

Meira shrug-nods. “Maybe. I mean, it _could_ have been a tulpa, or an elder fae, or a doppelganger. Or _maybe_ a witch. But a shapeshifter is way more likely.”

Becky stares at her, wide-eyed. “This is insane.” She says, resigned, then shakes her head and focuses. “How on earth is any of this going to help get Zach out of prison?”

Meira frowns a little as she thinks about that. As far as the police will ever be able to tell, Zach _did_ commit that crime. It’ll be his fingerprints, his DNA, his everything, because that’s how shifters work. In her dad’s story, though, the shifter’s crimes got pinned on him because the shifter was killed while wearing his face, at the scene of a matching crime. “We’re going to have to work at that.” She admits.

“But you think it _can_ help?” Becky presses.

Meira nods. “The shapeshifter committed the crime, we just have to convince the police of that.”

“How?!” Becky demands, throwing her hands in the air.

“I think nothing short of catching it in the act would work.” Meira admits, turning the idea over in her head and not liking where it’s taking her. She knows the shifter goes after someone else between Zach’s girlfriend and Becky, but she doesn’t know enough details to be able to sick the police on it then, and even if she did, that would mean making an innocent man a body-double for a brutal serial killer. Not something she’s overly keen on. “How would you feel about playing bait?” She wonders, because she’s not going to throw Becky in at the deep end, either.

Becky stares at her for a long moment. “You promise you’d make sure it didn’t kill me?” She asks finally, eyes scared but jaw set.

“I’d do my best.” Meira promises.

Becky doesn’t look entirely reassured, but she still nods. “I think I can do that, for Zach.” She decides finally in a voice that wavers slightly.

Meira wishes she could offer her some proper comfort or reassurance, but she’s laughably limited like this, and she doesn’t want to make promises she can’t keep. “Just in case you get into trouble, and I can’t get to you, the only way to kill a shapeshifter is silver to the heart. Knife, stake, bullet, it doesn’t matter, but… silver to the heart, and it’s dead.”

Becky’s eyes go wide, but she nods again. “If it’s a shapeshifter.” She points out.

“If it’s a shapeshifter.” Meira agrees with a grimace. “And we won’t be able to make plans until we know more about what we’re dealing with and what it wants, so we’d better not get ahead of ourselves, huh?” She asks wryly, and Becky huffs in amusement, which Meira takes as a win. Deciding they need to get off such heavy topics now, she tips her head to one side in exaggerated consideration. “So… wanna make out?”

Becky bursts out laughing. “Sure, why not?” She asks with an air of cheerfully reckless abandon. Meira bounces laughingly to her feet and crosses the room to deposit herself in Becky’s lap. “How many people get to say they’ve made out with an angel, anyway.” She muses rhetorically, looking up at Meira’s face in faint awe. Meira grimaces sheepishly, and Becky gapes through an incredulous smile. She’s beautiful like that, and Meira doesn’t even need to be able to see her soul to say it, so she leans in and kisses that smile, and Becky kisses her back without hesitation.

By the time Sam knocks on the door and calls out “Um, are you decent?” through the wood, they’ve migrated to lying diagonally across Becky’s bed, Meira’s wings spread out over them with Becky’s fingers buried in the short, downy feathers that are stubbornly sticking around at the join to her back, which isn’t helping Meira think straight at all. Not to mention, this is not the first or even the tenth time that her uncle has shouted that question or some variation through a bedroom door at her, which is further muddling her thoughts.

“Just a sec!” Meira calls, voice a little wobbly, and then, regretfully, she rolls her shoulders back and pulls her wings in. Becky pouts. Meira kisses her one last time, and then sits up. “Yeah, we’re decent.”

The door opens, and then Sam freezes, eyebrows high as he takes in the tableau they make. Then he clears his throat and stares pointedly at the ceiling. “ _Barely_. We just wanted to let you know we’re heading off, Becky.” He pauses, winces, and then asks, in a tone of profound reluctance. “Are you coming with, or staying here, Meira?”

Meira looks down at Becky, her expression entirely open, because she would be totally up for staying the night, but she won’t be bothered if this is as far as Becky wants to take their little ruse. Becky reaches up with a sideways smirk painting her lips, and strokes the side of Meira’s face. “You probably ought to go.” She admits ruefully.

Meira nods acceptingly. “As you wish.” She says, pressing a kiss to the palm of Becky’s hand before swinging off her and snagging her coat up on her way towards the door and Sam.

“You and Dean really are a lot alike.” Sam comments as they’re heading down the stairs.

Meira is so out of it that “Yeah, I-” falls out of her mouth before she remembers that the rest of that sentence, ‘I’ve heard that a lot,’ would open up a can of worms she’s _not_ interested in dealing with. She clears her throat and tries again. “I’ve kind of noticed.”

Sam snorts. “If you can learn to share instead of hoarding every pretty woman we come across, you and he could be best friends.” He muses.

Since they’re now within earshot of Dean, Meira decides to take the opportunity Sam’s given her. “Hey, the pretty men are _all_ his. I think that’s fair.” She says with a shrug, and then grins into the face of Dean’s glower.

* * *

**St Louis, Missouri – Saturday 4 th  March 2006 **

Dean is still giving her sour looks the next morning. Meira honestly hadn’t expected him to be peeved about it for this long. Except, then she realises that Sam is getting an equal amount of sour looks, and she’s pretty sure Sam hasn’t been picking up hot chicks that his brother was flirting with, so it can’t be about that.

“Alright, so what are we doing here at _five-thirty_ in the morning?” Dean demands grouchily, and oh, right. Morning. Meira very nearly giggles as she bounces out of the car. She is a morning person just by nature, or more like a sleep-whenever-and-wake-up-bright-eyed-whenever sort of person, but somehow the schadenfreude of how much the people around her _hate_ the fact that she’s a morning person is what makes her so cheerful so early in the morning.

“I realised something.” Sam explains. “The video tape shows the killer going in, but not coming out.”

“So he came out the back door?” Dean asks, playing along without much enthusiasm.

“Right.” Sam confirms, heading off towards the back of the house, Meira follows half way, pausing in the middle of the street to scan the area from a distance, looking for anything out of place. “So there should be a trail to follow. A trail the police would never pursue.”

“Cause they think the killer never left, and they caught your friend Zach inside.” Dean agrees, leaning back against the hood of the Impala in a weary slouch. “Still don’t know what we’re doing here at five-thirty in the morning.”

“You know, we’re going to have to think about how we’re going to handle that.” Meira points out, spinning and jogging back to Dean. He gives her a sour look.

“How the hell are you so freaking _perky_?” He demands.

Meira smiles ruefully. This is the point where usually, she’d reach out and give him a quick wash of grace to scrub away the lingering sleepiness, or Qaada or Pabbi would, but she can’t, and they’re not here yet, so she just shrugs. “Schadenfreude.” She admits shamelessly.

Dean sighs. “Think about how we’re going to handle what?” He asks, getting back to the subject.

“Getting Zach off the hook.” Meira says, more serious than she was before. Dean seems to pick up on it, and straightens a little in response, frowning at her. She shrugs. “We promised Becky we’d help, but just ganking whatever this is isn’t going to do jack shit for Zach.”

“Good point.” Dean agrees, but before they can actually discuss it, Sam distracts them with blood, and then an ambulance that goes wailing past. They follow, and find that the shifter has struck again, and Sam and Dean finally catch on that it is, in fact, a shapeshifter.

“Let me ask you this.” Sam says. “In all this shapeshifter lore, can any of them fly?”

“Skinwalkers, if they have an avian form.” Meira puts in.

“But they can’t change their human face, so that’s out.” Dean counters. Sam gives them both a bitch-face, and Dean grins. “Huh, you were right about the schadenfreude.” He remarks to Meira, who snickers.

“The case, guys?” Sam presses irritably.

“Right, right. Sorry. Go on.” Dean says magnanimously, and Sam finishes explaining the problem.

Which, eventually, leads them down into the sewers with guns full of silver. Meira doesn’t like it, but she keeps her trap shut. This isn’t something she’s influenced, she hopes, so they’re probably not going to find the shifter this time. But they _could_ , and she doesn’t want to leave an innocent man to rot in jail, even if they do manage to kill the monster that did this.

She wonders how Zach would handle a life on the run. If worst comes to worst, she’ll just break him out and send him to- Well, shit. She can’t send him to the Batcave, because she knows for a fact that her dad and uncle didn’t find it until after the Apocalypse was over, and she can’t send him to Garth because she’s pretty sure Garth isn’t even a hunter yet, or if he is, he’s still a baby hunter.

All her thoughts about how everything she knows and every connection she has is out of date in the worst sort of way are knocked out of her head when the shapeshifter turns up _right behind them_ , knocks Dean about, and then flees. Meira can’t even shoot the bastard because both Sam and Dean are between her and it and she’s just not good enough with guns to be able to aim around them in such cramped quarters.

They give chase, all the way out of the sewers, and then Sam makes the dumbest suggestion Meira’s ever heard. “Alright, let’s split up.” He says, like they’re not chasing a monster that can _steal faces_ , and possibly memories, too, depending on how experienced it is. He doesn’t even suggest codewords, first. Meira should have known this was coming, honestly, she knows the shifter stole her dad’s face the last time around, but somehow, she’d managed to convince herself that _it_ had split them up somehow, not that they’d done it themselves.

And she can’t even protest, because maybe this is how they get the chance to clear Zach’s name.

* * *

**St Louis, Missouri – Sunday 5 th  March 2006 **

By the time they meet up again, it’s so late it’s early, and Meira _cannot_ relax. She feels sick and twitchy, like there’s an angry archangel bearing down on her exposed back. She knows, or at least suspects, that one of these two, probably her dad, is not actually who he looks like. And usually, she would be able to _tell_ . She’d feel it, she’d _know_ . She’d know her dad’s soul _anywhere_ , knows her uncle’s soul almost as well, but she can’t sense it now, which means she can’t be _sure_ , and it’s the most nerve-wracking thing she’s ever experienced, including that time an archangel tried to kill her.

She has no idea how normal people _deal_ with this.

Even before they reach the car, Meira can tell that her behaviour is making both Sam and Dean suspicious. She can’t help it, though. She absolutely, truly could not handle either one of them getting close enough to touch her when she _doesn’t know who they are_. She thought she was adapting to living like this, coiled up under her skin and useless, had thought that just being able to unfurl her wings is good enough, but it’s not, and she’s not, and she _hates it_.

“You alright there, Meira?” Dean asks, feigning causal but watching her out of the corner of her eye.

Meira shrugs, and it’s not the easy, casual motion she usually makes it, but she can still lie like a pro, even when she’s nervous. Pabbi taught her how to do that. “I’m fine.” She assures him, deflecting and not even bothering to pretend she’s not.

“You sure?” Sam asks.

Meira pretends to give in. “You know I didn’t hunt much before I started travelling with you guys. It’s a lot more nerve-wracking than I thought it’d be.” She explains ruefully. “That and I’m fucking shattered.” She adds.

“Tell me about it.” Dean agrees.

“Would’ve slept better if you hadn’t stayed with Becky last night, huh?” Sam asks lightly.

Meira raises her eyebrows at him, but it helps her relax a little to realise that he’s not just ignoring the possibilities of an impersonator. “Oh, if only.” She says wistfully, and Sam snorts, relaxing just a little, too. “You sorry you caught an eyeful when you came to say goodbye?” She teases.

“Oh, if only.” Sam retorts dryly, and Meira laughs, part humour, and part relief.

They get back to the car, and Sam asks Dean a leading question, too. He gets the answer right, but something must tip Sam off, because as he rounds the car and slips past Meira, he pulls his gun and points it at Dean. “Don’t move!” Sam yells. “What’ve you done with him?!”

“Dude, chill.” The thing that is probably not Dean says, lifting its hands into the air slowly. “It’s me, alright?”

“No, I don’t think so. Where’s my brother?”

“You’re about to _shoot_ him. Sam, calm down.” The thing that really probably isn’t Dean instructs, tone level but insistent. “Meira, back me up here.”

Meira moves to stand beside Sam and instead of answering pulls out the knife she has hidden in a holster she’d sewn into the pocket of her coat. It’s the best substitute she’s been able to manage for her angel blade, and she’s begun amassing her own collection of knives alongside Sam and Dean’s in the boot of the Impala. This one is, of course, silver, and it had actually been her first ever Christmas present in this time. Apparently, Dean had noticed she prefers knives to guns. She flips it over and holds it out to Dean. “Prove it.”

The thing’s eyes flick down, and then back up, one eyebrow raised. “Yeah, sure, okay.” It says, rolling its eyes. “Whatever’ll make you happy.” It reaches out, and then changes gear so fast Meira almost misses it. The crowbar smashes into Sam’s face, sending him crashing backwards into Meira, who staggers, which leaves her unprepared to fend off the second swing of the crowbar. She moves into it to protect Sam from the second blow, which rattles her brains so hard that she’s disoriented for almost a minute, collapsing on top of Sam in a dazed heap before her grace reacts, healing the damage and easing away the dizziness. She feigns unconsciousness anyway because she can’t kill the fucker yet. There’s at least two items on the to do list before they get to gank it. Free Zach, find Dean.

The shapeshifter carts them both back down into the sewers, ties them up, and then leaves them. Meira can’t see Dean, Sam is still unconscious, and the shapeshifter took her knife. It took her coat and boots, too. She’s going to be so pissed if she doesn’t get them back.

The problem is, she’s stuck once again not knowing if she should interfere or not. How much has she changed things? Does she need to be the one waking Sam and kick-starting a rescue? Because she’s pretty sure this is when the shapeshifter goes after Becky, and she promised she wouldn’t let Becky get killed. But she’s also pretty sure that Uncle Sam was awake to be gloated at in Dad’s stories, it had been a whole thing about how it had tried to drive a wedge between them by using some of the stuff it got from Dad’s thoughts and memories.

The shapeshifter comes back before she can make a decision, and she goes back to faking unconsciousness. If Sam’s still unconscious, then that thing must have hit him pretty damn hard, and it hit her just as hard. She doesn’t want to raise its suspicions that she might not be quite human.

Time blurs, and it’s so disorienting she gives up her pretence of unconsciousness to have a small panic attack. She’s always been aware of time before, and even after she got stuck here in the past, she could still at least track the days and hours by the progress of the sun, or by checking a clock. Not the same, but good enough. Now, she has no idea if it’s been a few hours or a full day already or what.

Finally, Sam wakes up. “Where is he? Where’s Dean?” is the first question Sam asks. It’s almost enough to make Meira smile.

“I wouldn’t worry about him.” The shifter chides casually. Meira shudders at the blatant proof that the thing speaking with her dad’s voice _isn’t_ her dad. It’s an awful dissonance when she can’t feel his soul, and so all the evidence she has says he _is_ her dad. “I’d worry about you.”

“Where is he?” Sam presses.

The shapeshifter taunts him, and, yeah, drives a wedge right into their relationship with obvious glee, spilling dark emotions and bitter secrets that it has no right to. “But, still, this life?” The shifter asks, all smug swagger. “It’s not without its perks. I meet the _nicest_ people.” It says on a laugh. “Like little Becky. You know, Dean would bang her if he had the chance.”

Meira snorts before she can help herself, because _obviously_. The shifter turns to her and grins. “But it’s not _him_ Becky wants to bang, is it?” He asks. “And, oh, boy, does Dean have problems with _you_ , lady.” Meira grits her teeth and glares, trying to find the cold, calm place inside herself that’s where the best of her heavenly wrath spills out from. She can’t, quite, not with a monster wearing her dad’s face and reading her dad’s thoughts is telling her he doesn’t even _like_ her. “You know they’ve looked into you, right? Called all their friends asking about a hunting family called Novak. Nada. Nothing. So they checked census records, national newspapers, _DMV_ records.” It emphasises with an incredulous laugh.

“Tell me something I don’t know, asshole.” Meira bites out, hating the fact that even though, yeah, she _knew_ Sam and Dean had to have checked into her, it still kind of hurts to hear it.

The shapeshifter sneers at her, but she can tell she got under its skin a little with her refusal to play along with its sick little game. “Seventy-seven Meiras born in the right decade in the US. But not one of them is you. And Dean, now- well, heh, _I_ would really like to know what it was you said that scared a _demon_ that badly.” It tells her, staring like it wants to read her mind. “Who the hell even _are_ you?” Then it laughs, and Meira’s stomach sinks through the floor. “Well, I guess I’m about to find out, huh?”

It backs away from her and starts _convulsing_ . Muscles ripple and bones crack, and it sheds clothes and nails and skin and teeth. Meira’s going to be having nightmares about that one for a week. It rises to its feet in a stagger, now a perfect mirror image of herself. _Shit_.

“Nghk!” The shapeshifter collapses again with a strangled groan, both hands coming up to cradle its forehead. “What the motherfucking _fuck_?” It asks with Meira’s voice, sounding strained and bewildered.

Meira stares at it, cringing on the floor, then tips her head back and laughs. It probably comes out a little deranged. Sue her, she’s been through a _lot_ today. “What, too much for you?” She taunts. The shapeshifter glares up at her, golden eyes gleaming faintly in the dark. “Niiso deyah erm avedate ol moagei.” She instructs, and grins when the shapeshifter only looks confused. “Didn’t think so, bitch.”

The shapeshifter backhands her in the face. It’s so tempting to let it break its hand on her cheek, but Sam is watching, so she takes it, and spits out the blood that starts filling her mouth before she lets her grace erase the worst of the damage. She’s going to have to let it bruise, though. She turns back and glares at the shapeshifter, and it stares back wearing her very best ‘heavenly wrath’ expression. Somehow, Meira just isn’t as intimidated as people usually seem when _she_ turns that expression on them.

It laughs, suddenly, bitter and darkly amused. “You know, I think I like this shape.” It says, leaning down to look Meira in the eye. “It’s so _comfortable_ in here. You and I, we have a lot in common.” It waggles a finger between them, and then chuckles. “Oh, man, this is so fucked up.” It says viciously. “And they have no idea.” It laughs again, and Meira wonders if Sam and Dean will buy that this is just when she happened to get through the ropes. “Should I tell them?” The shapeshifter asks, leaning in close. “Should I tell them what you think about when you look at them?”

Meira snaps her head forwards as hard as she can, which, with her grace backing her up, is pretty damn hard. Her forehead meets the shapeshifter’s nose, and it recoils with a yelp hands jumping to cover its face. Sam lets out a rusty chuckle, and Meira summons up half a grin that she holds onto even when the shapeshifter looks up from studying the blood on its fingers from its nosebleed and glares.

Then it staggers, making a wounded noise and pressing a hand to its temple, hunching in on itself like it’s trying to hide from the pain. When the moment ends, it’s shaking in the aftermath of the pain, but it laughs again. “Hey, nice plan there.” It tells Meira, and there’s a smile on the mirror of her face, but its eyes are flinty. They ought to be _burning_ when she’s that pissed, but it seems the shapeshifter can’t actually mimic grace. “It almost would have worked, too. I _was_ going to go see little Becky like this, but now…” It shook its head and turned to retrieve a _nasty_ looking knife. “Why go all that way when I have your _family_ sitting here just waiting for me?”

Cold fear washes over Meira, and she jerks against the ropes holding her, but they don’t give even a little. Looking down in surprise she tests it again, putting enough grace behind the move that she actually shreds the muscles in her arms before the healing kicks in, but the rope still doesn’t give. She looks up again, suddenly more afraid than ever, to see the shapeshifter picking up a nasty looking knife, with a triangular blade almost as long as Meira’s forearm. “Can’t believe I’ve never thought about doing it like this before.” It admits, waving the knife around to indicate all of them tied up in a sewer. “Making you watch yourself hurt the people you want so _desperately_ to protect.” It croons, ambling over towards Sam.

“Kind of ruins the effect when we know it’s not real.” Sam sasses.

The shapeshifter stands in front of him, and grins. Meira is so very, very glad that her uncle’s eyes stay above her collarbones, because the shapeshifter doesn’t have a stitch of clothing on it, and that’s probably the creepiest thing about this whole mess. “Oh, but _she_ does.” It say, and then crouches down, waving the knife at Sam. Meira twists her wrists, and _wrenches_ at them. Her wrists break before the rope so much as shifts, and she grits her teeth against the pain as they heal.

“Because, here’s a secret,” the shapeshifter whispers conspiratorially, while Meira is struggling, “no matter how badly she wants to protect you? She wants _you_ to protect her _so_ much more. Seeing you like this? Weak? Brought low by one measly _shifter_?” It sneers the term, and then laughs. “She’s so desperate for you to be someone you’re _not_ , someone who could fight the _devil_ and win, but all she’s got is you instead, and it breaks her heart every single day.”

The shapeshifter presses the knife into Sam’s thigh, twisting it slowly as it goes, and Sam lets out a strangled yell through gritted teeth. From somewhere behind them, Meira hears a familiar voice shout “Sam!” And her heart skips a beat in something that might be relief.

“So I’m going to kill you, and she’s going to watch herself doing it, and then I’m going to kill your brother wearing her face, and make her watch that too. Maybe _then_ I’ll start in on little Becky, and then the rest of the people she loves, one by one, until she’s _all alone_.”

Meira snorts, and the shapeshifter freezes, knife stilling, to turn and raise its eyebrows at her. Meira leans forwards as far as the inexplicably strong rope will allow, and smirks slowly. “My pabbi would eat you for breakfast and still ask for seconds, you pathetic son of a bitch.”

It makes the shapeshifter hesitate, because it has access to her memories, so it _has_ to know, or at least, has to be _able_ to know, exactly who and what her pabbi is. It winces again, hand coming up to press at its temples with a groan, and that’s when Dean appears behind it and yanks it away from Sam. It goes down with a yelp, and Dean drops to wrestle the knife away from it, and Meira looks away. She doesn’t want to watch her dad kill something wearing her face, thanks.

Which means she doesn’t see what happens, all she hears is a startled curse from Dean, a clatter, and then rapid footsteps. She looks up just in time to see the shapeshifter disappearing down one of the sewer tunnels. “Dean?!” Sam calls sharply.

“I’m okay, Sam. Fucker just sliced up my arm a bit.” Dean replies. He staggers to his feet with a groan, one hand occupied staunching the bleeding wound on his forearm. “You good to get yourself out, Sam?” He checks, even though he’s already heading for Meira before Sam nods. Crouching down, he starts trying to undo the ropes. “Shit.” He murmurs.

“What?” Meira asks.

“Steel core.” Dean explains, tapping at the ropes. Meira groans. That would explain why she couldn’t just rip through them. “Glad it didn’t have enough for all of us.” Dean mutters, getting back to work. “So, what plan was it talking about?” He asks from just behind her shoulder.

“I’d been thinking of how to get Zach out of prison, and I thought… if we could get the shifter to take… well, probably one of our shapes, and then get it caught at the crime scene, it might be enough to exonerate Zach.” Meira explains on a sigh.

“You mean, make the police think _we_ did the murders, instead of Zach?” Dean asks incredulously.

“We’re basically on the run from the law anyway.” Meira points out. “What’s a few murders on top of all the impersonating government officials and credit card fraud?” The ropes finally come loose, and she wriggles out of them with relief.

“That’s not a terrible plan.” Sam murmurs, getting free of his own bindings and attempting to stand. He goes back down again with a curse, a hand clamped tight over the gouge in his thigh. Dean’s face darkens.

“Yeah, well, killing that thing is top priority, and I don’t give a fuck where it happens.” Dean announces, moving to help his brother.

Sam gives a strained chuckle. “We’re a bit short on weapons, Dean.” He points out. “And we need medical attention.”

“Car, motel, and _then_ we find this son of a bitch.” Dean capitulates. None of them have a better plan, so that’s exactly what they do.

* * *

**St Louis, Missouri – Monday 6 th  March 2006 **

Meira stayed in Sam and Dean’s room last night after they failed to find the shapeshifter, instead of going back to her own, so she wakes up with a jolt from her huddled doze on the couch when Sam’s phone rings. “Becky?” He asks when he answers it, and Meira sits up sharply.

“Hey, Sam.” Becky says, and her voice sounds a little _off_ to Meira.

“What’s up?” Sam asks, frowning faintly.

“Is, uh- is Meira with you?” Becky asks carefully.

Sam blinks, and then his eyes go wide as they snap to Meira. “Yeah.” He says carefully. “Why?”

“Well, she stopped by last night.” Becky tells him, and Meira curses herself for just assuming the shapeshifter _wouldn’t_ go after her now that it knew Meira had been considering using her as bait. “She was acting… weird, talking about, god, _shapeshifters_ and stuff, and then she attacked me.”

“W-what?” Sam asks, doing a good job of feigning horror and surprise. “Are you okay?” At that, Dean stops trying to block out the noise with a pillow and pops his head up to stare, and then to turn towards Meira with a hint of horrified realisation on his face. Meira grimaces and shrugs.

“She only managed to throw me about a little bit, I’m fine.” Becky assures him. “I, um… I told the police that she’d gloated to me about the other attacks, about framing the boyfriends for the murders.” She adds, and Sam does a hilarious little double-take. “So, uh, if they ask, Dean’s my boyfriend now.”

Sam’s mouth is a little agape. “Why- why would you…?” He asks, baffled.

“ _Because_ , Sam,” Becky says, impatiently, “there isn’t going to _be_ any miracle evidence that Zach didn’t do this without someone else to take the fall, since this thing was _wearing his face_ when it did it!” There’s a protracted silence as Sam tries and fails to work out what on earth to say to that. “She- _it_ was telling the truth, wasn’t it?” Becky says finally, triumphant.

Sam clears his throat. “How-? Why-?” He stammers.

Dean makes a gesture and mouths ‘what?’ at Sam, who entirely ignores him. Meira has to fight hard to keep her laughter in check as she exchanges a baffled look with Dean so as not to reveal her better-than-normal hearing.

“Well, for one thing,” Becky begins, “if there’s no such thing as shapeshifters, I’d really like to know how Meira could be with you when the police carried her dead body out of my kitchen yesterday evening.”

“Dead body?” Sam echoes, sounding strangled.

“Who’s dead?” Dean asks.

Becky clears her throat, and her voice is a little more subdued when she answers Sam. “Yeah. She- _It_ attacked me in the kitchen, when I was, well, actually, I was calling the police under the pretence of getting another beer because it was freaking me out. I- it almost had me pinned, but then it- it had some sort of… I don’t know, attack or something. Like she- _it_ was in pain. I managed to get free, and I stabbed it with the first knife I could get my hands on.”

“Was the knife silver?” Sam demands, and Dean nearly falls out of bed in his shock at the implications of that question.

“…Yeah, actually. It was one of my mom’s old-fashioned dinner party set.” Becky confirms.

“Jesus, Becca. You have no idea how lucky you are.” Sam says on a breath of relief. “Shapeshifters don’t stay down unless you can get them in the heart with a silver weapon.”

“Oh.” Becky says. “Kind of a miracle that’s the one I grabbed, then, huh?” She asks, in a very tight, strained tone of voice. Meira has to press a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. She really hopes her eyes are conveying ‘shocked’ and not ‘three seconds from cackling like a lunatic’.

“No kidding.” Sam agrees, oblivious to the joke. “Look, Becky, I, uh-”

“Am going to explain exactly how I knew that and stop lying to my friends when their lives might be in danger?” Becky prompts sweetly.

Sam clears his throat. “Yeah, that.”

“I’ll see you soon, then.” Becky instructs, and then, somewhat unhappily; “But… Meira probably shouldn’t come with you. Wouldn’t do for anyone to see her around here after last night.”

“Yeah.” Sam agrees. “I’ll be there in half an hour?” Sam offers, Becky agrees, and he hangs up.

“Dude, what the fuck? Becky killed the shifter?” Dean demands at once.

“Yeah.” Sam confirms, staring at his phone in a daze. “The reason we couldn’t find it last night was because it went to Becky’s and attacked her.” Dean swears. “It was sheer dumb _luck_ that the knife she happened to grab when it attacked her was a silver one.” Sam adds in belated panic, running a hand through his hair. Then he sighs, and looks guiltily at Meira. “So, um, since it was wearing your face when it died…” He trails off and shrugs. “The police think you’re the one who committed all the murders and framed the boyfriends.”

Meira shrugs. “They also think I’m dead, so it’s not like they’re going to be looking for me or anything.” She points out.

“Yeah, but, that means you probably can’t use your real name anymore.” Sam points out.

Meira grins at him. “Sam, I don’t _have_ a legal identity. That’s why you couldn’t find me in those DMV records.” She points out with good humour, which makes Sam and Dean both snort. “As long as no one tells the cops my full name, it doesn’t matter.”

“I’ll tell Becky that.” Sam assures her, getting up. “Speaking of which, I’ve gotta go explain… everything.” He says, and then grimaces. “Oh, by the way, Dean, apparently you’re her boyfriend now, for the purposes of being potentially framed for her murder.”

Dean blinks, then grins. “Sweet.”

“So you probably ought to come with me to comfort your girlfriend after she got violently attacked by a serial killer last night.” Sam adds pointedly.

Dean, to Meira’s surprise, hesitates, and gives her a long, thoughtful look. She stares back, bewildered. “You okay with that?” He checks, and Meira smiles at his consideration. But she isn’t big on monogamy anyway, and she tells Dean as much. There’s a little curl of discomfort, at the notion of sharing a romantic partner with her _dad_ of all people, but it’s minor, and she ignores it. It’s not actually anything more than a ruse, and if it turns into more, well, Meira’s not so attached that she isn’t willing to bow out gracefully.

“And you still gonna be here when we get back?” Dean adds, in a tone so carefully devoid of judgement that Meira _knows_ he definitely has an opinion on what the right answer is, but for the life of her, she can’t figure out which one he thinks that is.

She swallows. “Yeah.” She confirms. “Not like I’ve got anywhere else to go.”

“What about your pabbi?” Sam suggests with a hint of challenge. “He’s still alive, isn’t he? Or at least, the shapeshifter certainly thought so.”

She could go to him. She could try to summon him as Loki and get his help with this fucked up binding, but if it’s not something she can break herself, there certainly isn’t anything he could do without revealing to half the universe what he is, and she won’t do that to him. “I’d just get him into even worse trouble if I got in touch with him.” She says hollowly.

“Trouble?” Dean prompts.

Meira smiles, and doesn’t bother to try and make it look anything like sincere. “You don’t want to be late to Becky’s. She might try to stab you, too.” She says, and Dean holds up his hands in acceptance of the deflection and starts getting dressed.

“Why couldn’t the shapeshifter understand that language you said the exorcism in?” Sam asks while his brother’s busy.

Meira tries to think of a way to explain without getting into details that will make them wonder about her humanity. “It’s a holy language.” She explains finally. “You can’t steal it and have it work in any meaningful way. It just turns into gibberish. It has to be taught willingly, and freely given.”

“Huh.” Sam says, intrigued. “That sounds a bit like the old fairytales where you had to be careful who you gave your name to, because the fae can’t take it from you unless you give it to them. But you could tell them to call you something, and they wouldn’t be able to steal it, because it hadn’t been given freely.”

“Similar dynamic there, yeah.” Meira confirms.

Sam opens his mouth, probably to ask more questions, and Meira is just grateful when Dean shuts him up by shoving his jacket into his arms. “Geek out later, Sam.” He instructs, and drags his brother out the door. Meira flops back down on the couch and decides to catch a little more shut-eye before Sam and Dean get back and they have to leave.

She’s woken, once again, by a phone ringing, only this time it’s hers. On picking it up, she finds it’s Becky again. “Becky?” She asks in concern.

“Sam gave me your number.” Becky explains. Meira is glad, because she’d forgotten, in all of the chaos, to get Becky’s number for herself. “I just wanted to say goodbye, since I probably won’t see you again before you leave.”

“Oh, yeah.” Meira agrees ruefully. “I’m glad you’re okay, Becky.”

“Thanks to you.” Becky retorts. “If you hadn’t warned me…”

“Forewarned is forearmed.” Meira says, partly agreement, and partly a dismissal. “By the way, how did you know it wasn’t me? You’ve only known me for a few days, and that shifter was a pretty good impersonator.”

Becky laughs. “It’s a little ridiculous, actually.” She says, sounding embarrassed. Meira makes an encouraging noise. “She wasn’t wearing a backless top.” Becky admits, and Meira, after absorbing that, bursts out laughing. With mirth in her tone, Becky explains. “It was such a tiny thing, but she took her coat off and I was like, ‘her wings would rip right through that’, and it just seemed _odd_ , right?”

“Oh, man, the number of t-shirts I lost as a kid for _exactly_ that reason.” Meira agrees, still laughing. “I guess just having my memories doesn’t necessarily mean it’s going to think of that when it didn’t actually learn that lesson itself.”

“Mm.” Becky agrees. “Well, after that, I just kept picking up on things. Like, the things she was saying? You were so matter-of-fact about the whole… um, abomination thing, but that thing? It… God, it was creepy. It was like it was half in love with the idea, just so that it had the justification for being…”

“Monstrous?” Meira suggests, and Becky hums a disgusted agreement. “Yeah, I was lucky.” Meira sighs sadly. “I have a family that loves me no matter what the rest of the world has to say about it. That asshole didn’t have anyone to tell it that it wasn’t a monster, so it didn’t realise it didn’t have to be one.”

“You feel sorry for it?” Becky asks sceptically.

“Yeah.” Meira confirms. “Don’t get me wrong, it _was_ a monster, and it needed to be stopped, but… I can still see the tragedy of it, of all that wasted potential. Most shifters aren’t like that, you know? They live perfectly normal lives, doing people things, just… sometimes changing their face if they need to.”

“Huh.” Becky says. “Well, I gotta go, but… don’t be stranger, okay?” She prompts.

“I won’t.” Meira assures her. “And you call, me or Sam, if you think there’s something weird afoot.”

“I will.” Becky promises with a small laugh. “And you make sure Sam stays in touch, too. He said he would, but I’m not sure I believed him.”

“Okay.” Meira agrees, amused. “Take care of yourself, Becky.”

“You too, Meira.”


	6. A Light that Blinds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Chapter title from Assassin's Creed, Altair's Codex: "How naive to believe there might be a single answer to every question. Every mystery. That there exists a lone divine light which rules over all. They say it is a light that brings truth and love. I say it is a light that blinds us – and forces us to stumble about in ignorance.")

**Ankeny, Iowa – Tuesday 14 th  March 2006 **

The spot under the bridge where the kid died isn’t very informative. At least, Meira thinks, combing over the area for the third time and finding no tracks, they can probably rule out something corporeal. The only thing that’s even a little bit odd is the vandalised sign at the top of the turn off, which doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the attack.

Giving up, Meira ambles back up to the main road and drops down to sit on the kerb. She texts Dean to let him know the site is a bust, and then entertains herself texting Charlie about the validity of the more modern urban legends versus the reliability of ancient lore until the Impala pulls up. Meira feels kind of proud of herself for not resenting, too much, that she needs to be picked up at all. “So, where to next?” She asks as she throws herself into the back seat.

“We’re going to church.” Dean declares with a heavy sense of irony.

Meira makes a reluctant noise and slides down in her seat, staying there right up until they arrive. “Do I have to?” She whines.

Sam looks over the back of his seat, eyebrows all the way up to his hairline. Dean snorts and gives her an amused look in the rear view mirror. “No, you can always stay here and sulk like a whiny bitch if you really want.” He says magnanimously.

Meira grins despite herself, because that’s _classic_ Dad. He means it, too, she thinks, which has always been the best part about her dad’s response to that sort of thing. He’d be quite happy to leave her in the car, if she’d rather, but they both know she wouldn’t rather, because she’d be bored out of her mind in the first five minutes. And it’s just _nice_ , to see the shades of her dad in this younger version, instead of seeing all the places where he’s not, yet, what he will be.

“That sounds boring. Church it is.” Meira replies, and gets out of the car.

“You don’t like churches?” Sam asks, unfolding himself from the passenger seat and looking bewildered by the notion. Meira gives him a quizzical look, because when has she ever suggested that she _does_? “I thought you were religious.” Sam explains. “You quote the bible when you’re pissed, and you know exorcisms in a holy language.”

Meira tips her head to give him that one. “I have faith, I’m not really religious.” She corrects thoughtfully, considering the church. It’s not giving her any bad vibes, but then, it wouldn’t. She can’t feel when what is supposed to be a holy space has been violated anymore, so the church is just a building to her senses. A pretty building, admittedly, but still just a building, without either the glow of sanctity or the cloying of corruption.

“What’s the difference?” Sam asks as Dean joins them and they head for the door.

“Faith is in here,” Meira begins, tapping on her chest, “not out there,” she finishes, hushed, gesturing pointedly around at the building as they step into the church. Sam pulls a thoughtful, accepting face, and then winces when the forgotten door bangs shut behind them. They pick seats near the back, and Meira slumps down in hers out of habit, and just barely reigns in the urge to stick her boots up on the back of the pew in front. She knows Granddad wouldn’t care, but people can get pissy about it, and this is a job, so she can’t really afford to make people hostile for no good reason.

Meira can’t help but roll her eyes at the invitation to pray. God already gave humanity the power to protect their children, and peace is something they have to make for themselves. Sam tries to glare her into doing it anyway, but Meira just stares back, a little incredulous, and after a couple of seconds, he gives up with a roll of his own eyes.

After the service, they manage to talk to the only witness and her father, and given Sam and Dean’s proposed ruse of being students, Meira decides to flirt a little while asking Lori about what it’s like to live in a sorority, after Sam’s done subtly interrogating her. It makes Dean, who caught the tail end of the conversation, laugh all the way to the library, much to Sam’s irritation.

They find a suspect in the dusty arrest records, and a possible connection in the location that Dean wants to check out. “There’s nothing out there, though.” Meira points out. “I checked.”

“Maybe he only comes out a night.” Dean retorts.

“But he’d still need something to anchor himself.” Meira counters.

“He could be anchored to the place itself.” Sam suggests.

Meira stops to consider that. “If he were, that would make him more of a poltergeist than a spirit, with nothing to identify him as more than a mass of violent energy. We’d need a purification ritual. Which won’t do anything except free him from that location if there’s anything still holding him here, like his bones.” Meira muses. “So we should burn those _first_ , and then purify the place.”

Dean makes a disgruntled noise, running a hand over his face. “We still don’t actually _know_ that this guy is the ghost. We don’t even know if it _is_ a ghost. Can we maybe go see if we can get an ID on this fucker before we go to all the effort of grave robbing, huh?” He asks impatiently.

Meira echoes his groan with one of her own. “You two have fun with that, then. I’ve spent enough time under that damned bridge, so I’ll dig into Karns, instead, see if there’s any other compelling connections.” She pulls a face at the thought of more proof. “Man, this is why I hate preachers. Like making a career out of bringing people pleasure is a greater sin than self-righteous _murder_.”

Sam snorts. “They’re not all like that.” He points out reasonably.

“Not _all_ politicians are fucking liars, either, but no one complains when someone says ‘I hate politicians’.” Meira retorts grumpily. Then she sighs. “Maybe I’ll look into death records, too. See if there have been any other hook-man-like deaths. Maybe a pattern will help.”

“Alright.” Dean snorts. “We’ll pick you up once we’re done.”

Since the library is closing, Meira takes Sam’s laptop to an all-night café and goes through what records the town has online, and the ones the library let her borrow, which isn’t as much as she’d like, but it’s still enough to get lost in for hours.

* * *

**Ankeny, Iowa – Wednesday 15 th  March 2006 **

By the time Meira looks up from her frustrating research, it’s after midnight, and Sam and Dean still haven’t shown up or called or anything. Ignoring the little trickle of anxiety that bleeds into her gut at the thought, she pulls out her phone and rings Dean, only to find out they’ve been _arrested_. Not for long, Dean somehow managed to talk them down to just keeping them overnight, but it’s a hassle. Meira resigns herself to a long walk, and goes to fetch the Impala.

“Did you hotwire my baby?” is the first thing out of Dean’s mouth when he sees Meira leaning against the Impala’s hood.

“No, I teleported.” Meira replies, giving him a look. “Yes, I hotwired her, what did you expect me to do without the keys?”

Dean is in the middle of ostentatiously checking the car over for so much as a scratch when a couple of police cars screech out of the station, sirens wailing. They all three of them share a look, and then get into the car and follow. “Guess that’s a no on being bound to the location?” Meira says as they drive past the sorority house.

“Yeah.” Dean agrees. “We should check out the crime scene.”

“ _I_ should check out the crime scene.” Meira corrects. “You two _just_ got un-arrested, let’s not test your good luck, huh?” She challenges with a laugh. Dean makes a disgruntled face, but nods, so Meira hops out of the car and waltzes in through the front door when no one’s paying too much attention. The scent of ozone is detectable even out in the hall, where Meira spots a scratch dug deep into the wall and on into the door jamb that reminds her of the mutilated signs out on Nine Mile Road. And then there’s the message, and the symbol that she spent half the night staring at, on and off, through her research.

She heads back out to update Sam and Dean. “Well, that seems like enough of an ID to me.” Sam says, looking to Dean, who nods.

“Alright, well, let’s find the dude’s grave, salt and burn his bones, and put him down.”

Meira sighs. “Jacob Karns was buried in an unmarked grave.” She tells them wearily. “I was going to go see if I could find it last night, but then you _got arrested_.”

“Are you ever going to let that go?” Sam asks, resigned.

“In a couple days, probably.” Meira capitulates with a grin. Sam gives her the bitch-face. “I also found, last night, a couple of other instances of ‘invisible killings’. 1932 and 1967. First one was a one-off, second one was a mass murder. Both were blamed on self-righteous religious douchebags who claimed that the murders had actually been committed by some invisible force.”

“So maybe the spirit isn’t haunting the place of its murders, but people who resonate with it somehow?” Sam suggests. “Poltergeists have been known to latch onto people instead of places.”

Meira whines. “Purification rituals on people are _annoying_.”

“It might still be a ghost.” Dean reassures her, and Meira clings to hope. “My guess is it’s haunting Lori this time around.” He adds.

Sam frowns at him. “Lori doesn’t exactly seem like the type to resonate with this guy.” He challenges, and then his expression turns thoughtful. “Her dad, though… He’s a Reverend, and he’s been preaching against immorality.” He glances over at Meira in amusement. “Is that enough to count as a ‘self-righteous religious douchebag’?” He wonders mockingly.

“Yes.” Meira confirms, crossing her arms defensively.

Sam snorts. “So maybe Reverend Sorenson wants to protect his daughter, and that’s why the ghost is going after the people around her.”

“In that case, you should keep an eye on her, in case this guy shows up again.” Dean instructs, and Sam nods.

“What about you two?” Sam asks, looking between them.

Dean tips his head back with a groan of reluctance. “We’re going to have to go and see if we can figure out which unmarked grave is Karns’s.” He explains unhappily. Meira thinks, ruefully, that this would be so much easier if she could use her grace to do the searching, but no, they’re going to have to go off guesswork.

“Worst comes to worst, we can just dig up the lot and torch them all?” Meira offers.

Dean looks at her in horror. “That’d take us all week! Grave digging ain’t easy!” Oh, yeah. Can’t use grace for that either. Meira slumps. “Christ, come on.” Dean sighs, and they all get back in the car. They drop Sam off a street away from Lori’s house, and then drive to the cemetery, pack a bag with everything they’ll need, and start searching.

“You know,” Dean begins suddenly, his tone nonchalant enough that it sets a warning bell ringing in Meira’s head, “it occurred to me that you haven’t really been brought up to speed on the whole ‘looking for our dad’ thing, even though you offered to help.” Meira blinks in surprise, which Dean catches, because he raises an eyebrow at her. “You haven’t even been asking questions.”

Because she already knows this story, but she can’t say that, so instead, she offers him a wry smile and says; “I was returning the favour.”

Dean snorts. “You return the favour on the background check, too?” He asks dryly.

Meira figures that’s as good an excuse as any for knowing the bare basics. “I read about what happened to your mom. I’m sorry.” She says quietly. She doesn’t know what it’s like to have a parent die on you, but she’s starting to become familiar with _loss_ , and it sucks.

Dean nods, but otherwise ignores her sympathy. “Dad’s been hunting the thing that did it ever since.” He explains, using the excuse of looking for the grave to avoid looking at her. “He dropped off the grid a couple weeks before we ran into you. Right before the same thing that killed our mom up and killed Sam’s girlfriend the same damn way.”

Meira winces. “Ouch.” She thinks back, to when Sam lost his temper with the demon for taunting him about Jessica. “It was a demon that did it, wasn’t it?” She asks, as if she doesn’t already know exactly which demon it was. At Dean’s surprised look, she raises her eyebrows. “The plane crash demon said it knew what happened to her. Demons don’t really mess about talking to ‘lesser evils’, as far as I know, so…” She shrugs.

“Yeah, probably.” Dean grits out. “Anyway. I figured you should know what we’re doing.”

Meira nods, and they walk on in silence for a while. She thinks about just letting it lie, but she kind of feels bad that Dean is offering her this explanation she doesn’t actually need, because they’re really not the sketchy ones that just popped into her life and attached themselves to her for no real explanation. No, that’s her, and she doesn’t _want_ to have to be secretive and evasive with them. “I don’t actually know what happened to my family.” She says finally.

Dean startles, and then raises his eyebrows at her. Meira looks away, shoulders hunched, and focuses on the graves. “My family pissed off _loads_ of people.” She begins.

“Took on the devil, huh?” Dean asks.

Meira glances at him sharply, and then smiles bitterly at the sceptical look on his face. “Yeah. Dunno if you could say they _won_ , exactly, but… they survived, which is pretty kick-ass all on its own if you ask me.” She points out, and Dean tips his head in acknowledgement. “Well, I got… accosted on my way home. Didn’t see what it was, but _something_ made me crash, and…” Meira hesitates, trying to work out how to phrase it to make it sound plausible without adding in time-travel. “I don’t know why they didn’t kill me, but I figured I wasn’t safe, so I tried to get home.” She swallows hard.

“What’d you find?” Dean asks solemnly.

“No one was there. They were just… _gone_. Then-” Well, time to make some shit up wholesale to explain her inexplicable knowledge. “Then Pabbi called. Told me to run, to get away. That something had got to them all, and that he was going to hide and I should do the same, and-” Meira stops talking for a moment, and breathes, not even wanting to imagine a world where what she’s implying were true. “You have no idea how much the idea of something that could take on _my dads_ and win scares the shit out of me. So I ran.” She explains, and then shrugs. “And that’s when you found me.”

“Huh.” Dean grunts, nodding slowly. Then he side-eyes her. “You don’t want to find the son of a bitch that did it? Get revenge?”

“Want to? Sure.” Meira laughs bitterly. “I want to find the little shit-stain and rip its spine out of its ass. Think I _can_?” She snorts derisively. “Not a chance in hell.” Not as she is now, anyway. She swallows again. “Pabbi wanted me to survive, so that’s what I’m going to do. This bitch wants my whole family dead? Well, good fucking luck to it, because I’m going to live _forever_ just to spite it.”

That makes Dean grin a little, like maybe he’s proud of her for that sentiment, and it makes Meira’s eyes sting with tears for no good god damned reason. “Well, that’s a sentiment I can get behind.” He agrees, and then lets the subject drop. “You ever do the college thing?” He wonders instead.

Meira smiles. “Yeah. Got a Bachelors in Anthropology.” Dean looks reluctantly impressed, and a little bitter. Meira remembers what the shapeshifter had said about some of the things he’s been thinking. She knows it was putting a negative twist on things, but the things it had said about the inside of _her_ head had been true, too. “Also got in a fistfight with one of my professors, once.” She adds, which has the desired effect of making Dean laugh out loud.

“What about?” He asks, delighted. Meira cheerfully recounts the story for him, and then Dean tells her a story of his own from his high school days, but stops mid-word as his focus shifts to something one row of headstones over. “There we go.” He says, and deviates from their methodical search pattern. Meira follows him, and sees the gravestone with the symbol from Karns’s hook on it.

“Helpful.” Meira says blandly, and Dean snorts. He drops the bag off his shoulder and pulls out two shovels. With a sigh, Meira takes one, and they get to work in the gathering dusk. By the time they reach the coffin, Meira’s back is sore, and her hands are stiff and aching. She’s used her grace to ease the worst of it, but she doesn’t want to look like it’s not affecting her at all, so she suffers through some of it.

“Next time, I get to watch the cute girl’s house.” Dean complains, taking a moment to lean against the side of the hole and stretch his aching arms.

“I’ll fight you for it.” Meira agrees wistfully.

Dean snorts. “No way. You had your turn.” Meira blinks. “You got to go on a dinner date while me and Sam dug up a ghost’s bike and nearly drowned.” Dean reminds her, and Meira nods because, yeah, okay, she definitely got off easy on that one.

“Fair enough.” She agrees, and then they go back to breaking open the coffin. They pour in the salt and the gasoline, then Dean drops the match. It’s remarkably satisfying to watch the bones burn after that much hard work to get to them.

* * *

**Ankeny, Iowa – Thursday 16 th  March 2006 **

They meet up with Sam at the hospital the next morning. They’d been on their way to pick him up when he’d rung to tell them not to bother, because he was going to the hospital with Lori. Once he’d been assured that Sam was okay, Dean drove them back to the frat house where he and Sam had mooched beds. It had been kind of awkward, knowing what all the frat boys had been assuming she was there for, but it did at least get the ‘room mate’ out of the room, and let Meira get some sleep in an actual bed, instead of in the Impala’s back seat like last night.

Meira waits in the car while Dean heads in to fetch Sam, and she’s surprised to see the grim looks on their faces when they come out. “What’s wrong?” She asks as they climb into the car. This time, Sam’s in the back seat, since Meira’s already occupying the passenger seat.

“Hook Man’s not gone.” Dean summarises. “Cause he’s using the hook as an anchor.”

“Great.” Meira sighs.

“And Dean was right. It’s latched onto Lori, not the Reverend.” Sam adds with a grimace.

He explains his reasoning again, and Meira pulls a face. “This is why I hate religion. Fucking semantics.” She grouses. Sam makes a confused noise. “People heard ‘your choices will have consequences’ as ‘if you do something wrong, you get punished’, when it’s not. If you drop a glass and it shatters, you don’t say you’re being _punished_ for dropping it. It’s just cause and effect.”

Sam huffs. “What about Hell, then?”

“Metaphysical cause and effect.” Meira replies. “God doesn’t send people to Hell for being bad, we send ourselves there.” When she glances over her shoulder, she sees Sam looking thoughtful. She bites back the rest of the explanation, because she’s not sure she could give it in a way that makes it sound like it’s just what she _believes_ rather than what she knows to be true.

They pull up outside the library, and get back to work researching what the hell happened to Jacob Karns’s hook. It takes them half the damned day to find out that the blasted thing was donated to the church and then melted down, with no record of what it became. They go grab an early dinner and wait until it’s dark to go raid, purify, and burn the church’s entire collection of silver. Meira’s practically bouncing in her seat on the drive over.

“Dibs on the church!” She crows as they pull to a stop behind the church.

Sam snorts. “I’ll take the house, then.” He says, and looks over at Dean. “You go with her, make sure she doesn’t vandalise anything _else_.” Dean laughs his agreement, and they split up. They raid the church, make a fire in the furnace in the basement, toss a load of salt on it, and Meira adds a blessing over the flames as well, just in case. After all, being melted down hadn’t worked the first time around.

Sam brings the stuff from the house, and then they’re interrupted by footsteps above their heads. It turns out they belong to Lori, and after a beat, Sam goes to talk to her. “Not going to steal her out from under him?” Dean asks Meira as they head back downstairs to mind the fire.

Meira makes an exaggeratedly mournful face. “I’m pretty sure she’s straight. Possibly also mildly homophobic. She was giving me that sort of look when I flirted with her before. _Religion_.” She spits, and Dean just laughs at her.

It’s barely been a couple of minutes before they hear yelling and banging upstairs. They share a look, and then they bolt back up the stairs, following a trail of destruction through the church to find Sam and Lori being accosted by Karns. Meira takes the necklace when Sam tosses it to her, and leaves Dean to stand guard over his brother while she burns the necklace. Once it’s melted, she jogs back upstairs yet again, and checks in with the others. “Did that _finally_ get him?” She asks.

“Yeah, definitely.” Dean confirms, and Meira slumps against the wall in relief.

* * *

**Ankeny, Iowa – Friday 17 th  March 2006 **

Meira goes to find Lori after the police are done with them and have moved on to interrogating Dean and Sam. She sits down beside her on the edge of the grass, and ignores the faintly nervous looks Lori keeps shooting her. “I hope you know this wasn’t your fault.” Meira tells her without looking at her.

Lori sucks in a sharp breath. “How did you…?”

Meira glances over with a wry smile. “You had the ghost’s anchor. The only reason it would have gone after you was if you felt you deserved to be punished for some reason.” She explains gently.

Lori frowns at her. “Then it is my fault.” She says, and at Meira’s prompting look, explains. “It was _my_ feelings that made that thing kill Rich and Taylor. That made it go after my dad. If I hadn’t- hadn’t _judged_ them like that-”

“Like you’re judging yourself?” Meira asks, and Lori looks away sharply and nods once. “Lori… Did you kill them?” She asks pointedly. Lori frowns and opens her mouth, but doesn’t quite manage words. “Did you pick up a weapon and decide to kill them?”

“…No.” Lori says slowly. “But-”

“Did you, with full awareness and malice aforethought, ask or instruct the ghost of Jacob Karns to kill them?” Meira asks.

Lori sighs. “No.” She confirms.

“Then this isn’t your burden to bear.” Meira insists. “No one can control how they feel, Lori, and no one should be judged for the things they think. It’s what you choose to _do_ with those things that matter.” Lori bites her lip, looking like she’s a second away from crying. “Personally, I think it’s fair of you to judge the hell out of a guy who won’t take no for an answer, or a girl who tries to peer-pressure you into things you’re not sure you want to do, or someone who has an affair with a married person. Do I think they deserved to _die_ for those sins? No, probably not. But then, neither did you. That’s on Jacob Karns.”

Lori takes a deep breath, and nods her acceptance. “So… so it really was a ghost?” She asks quietly.

“Yeah. That charm you wore was part of his prosthetic in life, so his spirit clung to it after he died. Whether that was because of unfinished business, or because he was just afraid to move on? Who knows.” Meira shrugs fatalistically.

“Ghosts are real.” Lori says, as though saying it out loud might help her accept it.

“Of course they are.” Meira says, amused. “If you believe in souls, you kind of have to believe in ghosts.” Lori nods slowly, still lost in thought or possibly dazed by the revelation. “So, hey. Can I have your number?” Meira asks into the silence. Lori startles, and then gives her a wary, side-ways look. Meira snorts. “That wasn’t a come on, I promise.” She says, before Lori can try to find a polite way of saying ‘ew, no’. “It’s just for emergencies, I promise. In case you run into anything like this again, you can call for help.”

“Oh.” Lori says. “Okay.” She gets out her phone, and they exchange numbers. “I’m sorry.” Lori blurts out suddenly, looking pained. “I _just_ learned this lesson about judging people.” She huffs, frustrated with herself.

Meira laughs. “It’s not an easy mindset to get out of.” She acknowledges. “For the record, unlike the rest of your judgement, I don’t actually think it’s fair to judge consenting adults for what they do with their own bodies, or for who they love.” Lori cringes a little, grimacing in acknowledgement. Meira’s heart goes out to her, struggling so hard to be good and not knowing how. “But I forgive you.” She adds, serious, but with a touch of humour. The humour fades as she adds. “And God does, too.”

Lori smiles wryly. “I hope so.”

“I know so.” Meira retorts, which earns her a grin.


	7. Certain as the Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Chapter title from the song Beauty and the Beast, because I couldn't help myself =P)

**Oasis Plains, Oklahoma – Friday 24 th  March 2006 **

Meira thinks she knows this story, so when they drive into Oasis Plains, she can’t help but shift uncomfortably in her seat. She can’t feel it, but just knowing that this is desecrated ground makes her feel nauseous anyway. She doesn’t even want to get out of the car when they stop to investigate the sinkhole, even though she knows she’s going to have to muscle up and get over it eventually.

Eventually comes a hell of a lot sooner than she’d like, when Dean pulls over to stop in at a barbecue to investigate the local history. “You coming, Meira?” Dean asks, sticking his head back into the car. Meira grimaces, but opens the door and gets out of the car. She can’t feel a thing, and yet, her skin crawls anyway.

“Growing up in a place like this would freak me out.” Dean says as they amble down the sidewalk.

“Why?” Sam asks.

Dean looks like he can’t believe Sam needs to ask. “The manicured laws and the ‘how was your day, honey?’” He scoffs. “I’d blow my brains out.” Meira raises her eyebrows at him, but he doesn’t notice. “You’re with me on this one, right, Meira? You’ve been cringing ever since we got here.”

Meira shrugs. “I kind of… did grow up in a place like this. Well, we had more space, our house was a little off the beaten track, and we had a herb and vegetable garden instead of a lawn. And, you know, ‘How was your day, honey?’ tended to get answered with ‘oh, you know, the usual, took out a nest of vampires and buried them next to the tomato plants, you’re welcome’.”

“So, not like this at all?” Sam suggests, while Dean laughs.

Meira capitulates with an attempt at a grin. “Maybe a little less… normal.” She agrees, glancing around in distaste, even though she knows it’s not the houses or the attempt at suburbia that’s bothering her so much.

“There’s nothing wrong with normal.” Sam points out.

“I’d take our family over normal any day.” Dean counters.

Meira rolls her eyes at them both. “ _This is a song in defence of the fence, an anthem to ambivalence,_ ” She sings under her breath, and then stops abruptly when she remembers that, oops, that song doesn’t actually exist yet. Thankfully, Sam and Dean don’t seem to be paying much attention, distracted as they are by the guy opening the door.

They go in, they mingle, and Meira tries to push aside the knowledge that she’s walking on earth soaked in the blood of innocents. There was almost certainly a fury born here, although she probably wandered off once she realised the curse was doing her job for her.

Meira realises she’s lost Sam and Dean, and wanders over just in time to hear a perky dark-haired lady telling them that “-that we accept homeowners of any race, religion, colour, or… sexual orientation.” in a perky ‘look at me being all accepting’ tone. The emphasis in her statement, and the implications of it, are not hard to miss, and Meira feels bad for Sam and Dean, she really does.

So she butts in, to save them from having to awkwardly explain. “Oh, really?” She asks, with an over-emphasis of her own, sticking her hand out to the woman. “I have to say, I am _delighted_ to hear that. Meira Novak, and it’s a _pleasure_ to meet you.” Dean covers a laugh by coughing into his hand.

The woman blinks rapidly, her smile becoming slightly fixed, but to her credit, she recovers quickly, and shakes Meira’s hand. “Lynda Bloome. The pleasure is mine.” And then she launches right into a spiel about how amazing the houses here are. Meira has to admire her tenacity, and she _is_ pretty, so it’s not a hardship to chat with her, flirt with her a little, and nudge her into talking about the history of the place, as much as she knows of it.

By the time the three of them get back in the Impala, it’s already dark. Dean lets Sam drive so that he can go through their dad’s journal. “You know, I’ve heard of killer bees, but killer beetles?” Dean asks absently as he flips through the pages. What is it that could make different bugs attack?”

Meira has to resist the temptation to put her hand up like a kid in class while Sam and Dean discuss ghosts and pied pipers. “Curse?” Meira suggests into an opening. “Like the biblical plague of locusts?”

“I thought that was, you know, god’s wrath, not a curse.” Dean replies mockingly. Meira can’t actually tell if he’s mocking the idea, or just mocking the notion of god’s wrath.

“Biblical plague or not, it could explain the variety of insects turning murderous.” Sam points out.

Dean hums an agreement. “Oh, hey, pull over here.” He says, instead of presenting any other ideas. Sam obliges, confused, and then indignant as Dean gets out to open up the garage door of the driveway they’re idling in. Meira kind of wishes she could convince them to leave Oasis Plains for the night, but she’s pretty sure that’s a lost cause with how excited her dad is to try the fancy shower here.

* * *

**Oasis Plains, Oklahoma – Saturday 25 th  March 2006 **

Finding out that Lynda’s dead isn’t a surprise, exactly, but it’s still something of a blow. Getting into the house is easy, and finding the spiders convinces Sam and Dean that Matt being some sort of pied piper is more likely. Meira knows she has no reason to redirect them, so she lets it go, even though she’s itching to just grab everyone she can and fly away from this place.

Of course, then Matt leads them to the burial ground, so Meira should probably just resign herself to letting history play out as it has before. “So, what do you think?” Dean asks, glancing at her. “Miss Anthropology major?”

Sam startles a little, turning to stare, and Meira considers how much she can get away with sharing. “Well, don’t take my word as gospel, I’m just guessing.” She warns, crouching down beside Dean. She wishes she could just touch the bones and _know_ the soul that had once inhabited them, but once again, she’s stuck doing things the slow way. It’s very frustrating. “Given the mass grave, I’d say these weren’t natural deaths.” She starts off with. “You’ll need a lab if you want to date the bones accurately, but they’re probably not that old. Couple hundred years maybe.”

“Hundred year old mass violent deaths.” Dean summarises. “That’s not ominous at all.”

Meira snorts. “Given the location, and our history, I’d lay money on them being Native American.” She adds darkly. Dean, Sam, and Matt all grimace. “So, I’m adding Fury to my list of possible causes, although I’ve never heard of one summoning _bugs_ before. I still think a curse is the most likely, though, and if it is, then I’d say all white men should get the hell out of dodge.”

“Wait, curse?” Matt interrupts. “You think this is a curse?”

Sam and Dean both give her a look, but relent in the face of her lack of repentance. “It could still be pissed off spirits.” Dean points out, which is valid, given the givens.

“If we want more information, we’re going to have to talk to a local expert, I think.” Sam suggests, so they head off to the nearest university. Then Dean brings up the conversation Sam and Matt had been having that Meira had been trying not to think about. Watching Sam and Dean argue about their dad is right up there at the top of Meira’s list of Awkward Family Moments.

“Well it’s a two way street, dude. You could’ve picked up the phone.” Dean says. Sam doesn’t answer. “Come on, we’re going to be late for our appointment.” Dean finally changes the subject, turning away and continuing on into the university.

“You know,” Meira says before she can help it, and Sam startles like he forgot she was there, “it’s not your job to extend the olive branch.”

Sam sniffs once. “What do you mean?”

Meira gives a humourless little huff of laughter. “I mean, he’s your _dad_. It’s _his_ job to make sure that you know that he’s there for you. If he drops that ball, that’s on him, not you. I’m not saying you _shouldn’t_ , if you want to, I’m just saying…”

“I shouldn’t feel guilty for not doing?” Sam suggests bitterly.

“Yeah, exactly. I mean, Christ, I can’t even _imagine_ my dad coming by to check on me after a fight and _not_ letting me know, even if he was still pissed.” Meira says, and then laughs a little. “Actually, I’m pretty sure we did have that conversation a couple of times when I was off sulking. ‘I’m still pissed as hell, believe me, kiddo, and I get that you are, too, but I have to make sure you’re okay, so don’t you dare ignore me right now.’” Meira puts on her best imitation of her Dad’s angry-and-scared voice, which is not all that great, but at least it makes Sam smile.

“Yeah, I guess.” He agrees softly. “I just… I thought he was mad that I didn’t want to follow in his footsteps, not… _scared_ for me.” He shakes his head. “Come on, Dean’s right.” He deflects, and Meira follows him inside without another word on the subject.

The anthropology professor confirms basically everything Meira said, with the additional bonus of giving them somewhere to look for local Native legends.

* * *

**Sapulpa, Oklahoma – Saturday 25 th  March 2006 **

The man they find to tell them about the history of Oasis Plains, Joe Whitetree, pegs Dean as lying so quickly that Meira has to wonder if he has some manner of psychic ability, or if it’s just the well honed instincts of a long life spent dealing with a lot of liars. He tells them the history of the place, and Meira matches it up to what she knows from her dad’s stories easily right up until the end.

“And on the night of the sixth day, none would survive.” Joe finishes solemnly, and Meira jolts, shocked out of her absent nodding along. Joe looks at her with a hint of a frown. “That surprises you?” He asks bluntly.

“A death curse like that, fuelled by the blood of so many innocents, isn’t usually very flexible in the fulfilment of its parameters.” Meira replies, picking her words with care. Joe inclines his head. “If that’s what the curse said, then absolutely no one in Oasis Plains should be able to survive the night.”

“That’s true.” Joe confirms. “But you haven’t answered my question. Why does that surprise you?”

Meira smiles a little. “You changed your question.” She points out.

“The words you didn’t say answered the first one more clearly than the ones you did.” Joe retorts.

“Then they should have answered the second one, as well.”

Joe hums an acknowledgement, and refocuses on his cards. “Perhaps a greater force will intervene.” He muses, flicking a pointed glance Meira’s way. So, he’s probably at least a little bit psychic, then.

“There is no force greater than human choice.” Meira replies, and Joe smiles and nods, visibly pleased by her answer. He doesn’t say anything else, and after an awkward minute of silence, Sam and Dean realise the conversation is over, and leave. “Thank you.” Meira says to Joe before she follows, and he nods to her, shooting an unimpressed look at Sam and Dean’s backs. Meira grins and jogs after them.

They’re quiet until they’re all the way back to the car, but then they stop without getting in and Sam asks. “When did the gas company man die?”

“Let’s see, we got here Friday, so Monday the twentieth.” Dean replies.

“That’s the spring equinox.” Meira says.

Sam sighs. “So every year about this time, anybody in Oasis Plains is in danger.” He concludes grimly.

“And possibly in autumn, too.” Meira adds. “There are two equinoxes, after all.”

“Looks like you were right.” Dean says to Meira, though he doesn’t sound very happy about it. “God, I was so hoping it wasn’t a freaking curse. And the sixth night is tonight.” He wrenches the car door open and throws himself into the driver’s seat. Meira and Sam follow his lead and climb in.

“Larry and his family are the only ones staying there overnight, right?” Sam checks, full of nervous energy as Dean throws the car into gear and peels out of the parking lot. Dean grunts an affirmative. “We’ve gotta do something, or they’re going to die tonight.” He takes a moment to let that sink in, and then forces himself to be practical. “So, how do you break a curse?”

“In less than a day?” Dean asks grimly. “You don’t, you get the hell out of its way.”

“Your average curse usually isn’t too hard.” Meira interjects, leaning into the gap between Sam and Dean’s shoulders. “You break the parameters somehow. Kill the caster, protect the victim until the deadline, that sort of thing. Or if it’s bound to a certain person or place, you can try to purify it, but that only works maybe half the time. Death curses, though… They’re different.”

“Why?” Sam asks.

Meira opens her mouth, and hesitates on how to explain the exponential power of the human soul. Then decides she’s not going to get into the metaphysics of the whole thing, because then they’ll want to know how she knows. “You know how a lot of old black magic calls for ritual sacrifice?”

Sam nods, but Dean shoots her a horrified look through the rear view mirror. “Are you saying this might be some sort of _human sacrifice_ thing?!” He demands.

“Spells become exponentially more powerful if you use humans instead of other animals.” Meira explains, and Sam nods again to show he did know that much. “Well, it gets exponentially more powerful all over again if it’s a _willing_ human sacrifice.”

“But they weren’t willing, they were slaughtered.” Dean counters.

“Maybe the chief didn’t choose to die, no, but as he was dying he, himself, chose to put the power of his life behind the curse. That’s a powerful thing, no matter how you look at it. And that’s what makes death curses such a bitch.” She grins faintly, despite herself. “The power of human spite.”

Dean snorts. “Right then.” He says, and pulls out his phone.

He tries the gas leak lie first, but fails, and then Sam snatches the phone. Meira remembers this bit from her dad’s stories, and it’s a strange, but entertaining, moment of dissonance when Dean hangs up the phone and scoffs at Sam, because she’s heard her dad quote himself saying “Make him listen? What are you thinking?” half a dozen times, that it’s just surreal to hear him say it for the first time.

They could stop now. They’ve delivered the warning, and either Matt will convince his dad to get out or he won’t, but they’re certainly not going to get there in time to do more than _try_ to protect them from the worst of it. They could leave it up to Matt now, but none of them so much as considers it for a second.

* * *

**Oasis Plains, Oklahoma – Sunday 26 th  March 2006 **

Of course the Pike family are still there when they pull up outside. They all congregate on the front lawn to bicker, and Meira has to remind herself that _they survive_ over and over again to keep from using her grace to just grab Mr and Mrs Pike and _throw_ them in the damn car.

“Wait.” Dean says, interrupting the argument. “You hear that?” He asks, and yeah, Meira’s been hearing it ever since she got out of the car, but she guesses it’s only just hit normal human hearing range. The buzzing drone is powerful enough that Meira can almost _feel_ it, vibrating in her bones.

“What the hell?” Larry asks.

“Well, it’s been nice knowing you, Sam, Dean.” Meira says with fatalistic cheer. God, she really, really hopes she didn’t accidentally change something vital. Eaten by bugs is going to be a horrific way to go, especially if her grace insists on healing her for as long as it can.

“Alright, it’s time to go. Larry, get your wife.” Dean barks, and Larry, fucking finally, goes.

“Guys…!” Matt says with quiet horror, staring at the sky. Everyone else turns to do the same.

Meira sighs. “Everyone _stop fucking staring_ and get in the _fucking car_!” She commands, putting a little bit of grace into her voice to make it that little bit more compelling. The binding twinges with the threat of pain, but it’s enough to make everyone jump. Meira wrenches the back door open and glares at Matt as she points inside, and he goes, stumbling a little. Larry has already disappeared inside the house to fetch his wife.

“We’ll never make it.” Sam gasps out as the swarm begins to descend.

“We can _try_.” Meira counters, swatting at something that lands on her neck. “Besides, the car’s made of metal, it’ll be easier to secure against fucking _insects_ than the god damned house.” Larry and his wife come pelting out of the house, and his wife sees the writhing mass in the sky and screams. Thankfully, Meira doesn’t have to yell again, because Larry is shoving her on towards the open back door.

Dean curses and lunges for the driver’s door, and Meira and Sam share a grimace as they both squeeze into the passenger seat. “Everybody in?!” Dean shouts over the buzzing that’s getting louder every second. A chorus of confirmations come, and Dean guns the engine, skidding the tires as he turns the car and drives off as fast as he possibly can.

“Dean, you ever tried threshold magic?” Meira asks over the hysterical questions from the back seat. She’s squashed in against Sam’s side, half on his lap, but she doesn’t care as long as Dean has enough space to drive.

“What?!” Dean barks, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

“This is _your god damned car_ , right?” Meira demands.

“Damn fucking right it is.” Dean agrees, bewildered but vehement all the same.

“Are those bugs allowed in your god damned car?” Meira presses.

Dean glances at her briefly. “ _Hell no_.” He says firmly.

“Good. That’s a threshold. Hopefully it’ll keep us safe for a little bit longer.” Meira tells him, just as the first few bugs splatter on the windshield. And then some more speckle the glass. It’s like watching a rainstorm start, if the rain was dark and sticky. A little at first, and then more, and then suddenly half the windshield is black, and Dean has to turn the wipers on. They squeak unhappily across the glass, leaving smeary streaks behind, and barely have they made a pass before they’re needed again, smearing more insect goo across the glass.

“Sorry, baby.” Dean mutters, looking pained at the abuse his poor car is suffering. One hand lets go of the wheel to press against his temple. “Jesus Christ, this is a bad time for a migraine.” He snarls under his breath.

“It’s the curse testing your threshold.” Meira tells him, earning a startled look. “ _Don’t_ let it in.”

Dean’s jaw sets. “I won’t.” He swears.

They drive on, and Meira almost begins to hope they might be able to get out of Oasis Plains after all, when something goes _bang_ underneath them, and the car lurches and swerves. “ _Son of a bitch_!” Dean swears, getting the Impala back to something like the middle of the road just in time for another bang to send them careening off again.

“ _What was that_?!” Larry’s wife shrieks from the back seat.

“Burst tyre.” Dean grits out, holding on to the wheel for dear life as the car begins to slow. He smacks one palm against the wheel in impotent frustration. “God _damn it_.” They keep rumbling along, much, much slower, but they’re still going, even though it looks like every yard is physically painful to Dean. The buzzing around them is so loud it’s nearly deafening, and the windshield wipers are so gummed up with bugs that they’re not really clearing the glass anymore, just smearing the corpses about.

There’s another bang, another lurch, and then something screeches from the undercarriage, and they sort of scratch their way to a halt. They sit there in a dreadful silence, save for the endless, droning of the swarm outside, for what feels like days. The tension spools out slow and taut, never-ending, every second dragging out into forever. The longer it goes on, the worse it gets, but it also gets harder to maintain, exhaustion wriggling its insidious little fingers into the cracks. It becomes a monotonous drag on Meira’s nerves, forcing her to measure her breathing as they wait for something to change.

After a small epoch, Dean hisses out a breath and bows forward until his forehead touches the wheel, teeth bared in a soundless snarl. Meira figures the threshold isn’t going to hold out much longer. “Dean?!” Sam demands, worry flaring.

“Fucking headache.” Dean spits out. “Mother _fucker_. My car, my rules, _bitch_.” He hisses under his breath. “If you wanna get at these people, you’re gonna have to do it over my dead body.” Sam sucks in a sharp breath, and Meira reaches over him to wrap a hand around Dean’s arm. He turns his head and peeks one eye open reluctantly.

“Ace sentiment, but please don’t _actually_ kill yourself holding the threshold, okay?” She asks softly. Because she’s pretty sure they wouldn’t have thought of something like that on their own, and as long as she doesn’t push them to kill themselves doing something stupid like pitting one human soul against a death curse, they _will_ survive this. They have to. “It doesn’t need to hold forever, and we _can_ still try to secure the car without it.”

After a long moment, Dean nods. He keeps it up for a while longer, though, and Meira finds herself counting the seconds, wondering how much longer they have to get through. They can’t have been driving _that_ long, or they would have left the bounds of the curse. Dean had been going _really_ fast, so maybe ten minutes, all told. After that, she has _no_ idea, but it can’t have been too long. An hour maybe, two at most. She feels sick and uncertain and _scared_. Once the threshold gives, the bugs _are_ going to get in. They can dam up the vents and cracks with clothes, but that isn’t going to work forever.

It certainly isn’t going to last for four more hours, and that’s what they need, _minimum_. God, has she made a terrible mistake? Are they going to die here? Meira’s stomach ties itself into knots of lead, and she lets out a shaky breath. What the hell is going to happen to _her_ if her dad dies before she even becomes a possibility? She knows that humans aren’t capable of erasing their own existence, even if they do manage to travel in time, which is nigh on impossible anyway, but she’s not just human. She’s an angel, too, and they aren’t quite bound to time the same way. A purely angelic angel wouldn’t have to worry, because they were never born into the causality of time, but Meira _is_ human, too, and she _was_ born within the reaches of linear time.

She realises she has _no idea_ what could happen, and that’s even more terrifying than anything she’s ever experienced before. She presses her lips together hard to keep herself from… she’s not sure what. Swearing, maybe. Dean grunts under his breath and hisses out another curse.

Something rattles in the dashboard. Meira has no idea how she hears it over the persistent, mind-numbing buzzing, but she does, and her gaze snaps towards it. She can’t see anything yet, but she has a horrible feeling they’re out of time. The rattling comes again, and this time, Meira realises what it is. “The _vents_.” She hisses out, and snaps out a hand to slam the heating vents shut. Then she wriggles out of her coat, not even stopping to apologise when she elbows Sam in the face, to throw it over the vents and then lean on it.

“Good idea.” Sam says in a voice that shakes ever so slightly, and then, far more urgently, “Dean! Your nose is bleeding!”

“You’ve gotta stop, _right now_.” Meira orders him, voice coming out all high without her permission.

“How?” Dean grits out.

Meira almost laughs. It would figure that her stubborn son of a bitch dad wouldn’t even know how to surrender what’s his even if it were killing him to hold on to it. “They can have the damn car if they want it, it’s not worth your life!” She snaps at him.

For a moment, Dean looks like he wants to argue with her, even with the blood trickling out of his nose, and the pallor slowly draining the colour from his cheeks. “Dean.” Sam begs, and Dean’s eyes snap to him. “Let it _go_.”

And Dean does.

The buzzing immediately intensifies. For several minutes, the status quo holds, and although the tension has ratcheted up to an unbelievable degree, no insects appear inside the car. Meira resists the urge to hold her breath, knowing it can’t last forever. And then, there it is. Sam swears and slaps at something on his arm. Larry swears and stamps at something.

“If you see where they’re getting in, _block it_.” Dean commands hoarsely. Sam shoves Meira into the middle of the front seat to squirm out of his own jacket. Meira fumbles her hold on the vents, but doesn’t let go. She feels something bite at her exposed arms, and grits her teeth. Then there are more bites over her knees, her thighs, and she looks down to see an entire freaking colony of ants chowing down on her _through her jeans_. Dean throws his wadded-up shirt down into the footwell, and jams it somewhere Meira can’t see with his foot.

Meira twists around to hold her coat in place over the vents with her ass, and starts stomping the ants crawling over the front seat with her feet. In the back, Larry’s wife is yelping and swatting at the air in a frenzy, and Larry is using his coat to try and shield his son. “Dad-!” Matt squirms one hand out, and that hand is holding a can of bug spray. “Everyone hold your breath!” He yells, and Meira obeys, even ducking her head down into the crook of her elbow to avoid getting it in her eyes or something.

The bug spray earns them a momentary respite, but there’s no hope of lasting for so much as half an hour, never mind several hours. “Where’d you get that?” Dean asks, glancing over at them, while also slapping a hand down to squash a few more ants.

“Been keeping it on me since we found the bones.” Matt admits, sheepishly proud of himself.

“Good thinking.” Sam compliments, and then coughs.

Matt’s faint smile drops. “We’re not going to make it, are we?” He asks. No one answers him. He grimaces, because, yeah, that’s answer enough.

“There has to be _something_.” Dean says fervently.

Meira screws her eyes shut and _tries_ , pushing with her grace against the binding. She doesn’t need to take them _far_ damn it, just a few miles, just _out_ of Oasis Plains. Her grace burns and flares, but it does it all beneath her skin, shredding through her nerves and searing through her blood, and entirely unable to affect the world outside herself.

“Wait, wait.” Sam says suddenly, and Meira gasps for the breath she’d been unconsciously holding at the tiny note of _hope_ in his voice. “Is it just me, or is it getting quieter?”

Meira listens. The droning buzz of thousands upon hundreds of thousands of insects had dulled into very annoying background noise after the first half hour, but… she thinks maybe he’s right. There are still ants swarming on the seats, still wasps and beetles in the air, but… Meira can actually see them.

She twists to stare out of the window where the grey light of predawn is filtering into the car through the slowly dissipating throngs of insects. That, she thinks dumbly, is not possible. Is it? Surely she hasn’t so lost her grip on the passage of time that she _missed_ six and a half hours passing? The sun crests the horizon, and Meira can fucking _see it moving_ , even with plain old human eyes, no extra grace added.

Sam tentatively opens his door, and when nothing disastrous happens, they’re all spilling out onto the road to get away from the remaining, and still pissed off, ants and wasps. Meira stands there on the asphalt, with her jeans so full of holes that she might as well be wearing mesh, feeling like every inch of her skin is stinging, burning, itching or some combination of the three, holding her grace in even more tightly than the binding after what it did when she tried to use it in the car, wondering _what the fuck_ just happened. “We made it!” Matt says, jubilant, and his mother starts laughing hysterically.

“Aw, man.” Dean says in tones of abject dismay. “Look at my baby.”

Meira looks. The paint’s been chewed on so thoroughly the car looks piebald, three tires are blown and the rims are probably going to need replacing. The seats might need reupholstering, too, because they’ve been nibbled at as well.

“This is weird, right?” Meira asks Sam, a little desperately. Sam just looks at her helplessly. “It can’t be dawn already. That was _not_ six hours.”

Sam checks his watch, and shrugs. “It says it’s six thirty.” He tells her. “Maybe we just…” He trails off, and then shakes his head. “Yeah, I don’t get it, either. Maybe we drove through a pocket dimension?” He suggests wildly. “Or- or maybe the curse messes with time?”

Meira goes still, turning that one over in her mind. The curse _did_ have a time component to the parameters, didn’t it? ‘Before dawn on the seventh day’ and all that. But the curse wouldn’t _speed time up_ itself. If anything, it would slow it down. But it did mean it was a parameter that could be manipulated. ‘Perhaps a greater force will intervene’ Joe had said, and perhaps it had.

Meira sits down on the road and bursts out laughing. “Meira?” Sam asks, concerned.

“Maybe- maybe we should just s-skip straight to trying- trying True Love’s fucking Kiss next time and- and spare ourselves the drama!” She gasps out between bouts of rib-cracking laughter. “Oh my god! Oh my _god_!”

“What?” Dean calls incredulously. “This ain’t a fucking fairytale, what the fuck?”

“Dude! _Dude_!” Meira insists, still giggling too hard to get the breath for coherent speech. “We’re _Merryweather_. That’s what happened, oh my god!”

“What the fuck are you on about?” Dean demands.

“Merryweather.” Sam repeats, getting his thinking face on. “That’s the last fairy in Sleeping Beauty, isn’t it? The one who-” He stops, staring into the middle distance. “Oh.” He says, and then snorts, and follows Meira into helpless laughter.

“Are, um… they alright?” Matt asks, edging closer.

“Fucked if I know.” Dean retorts. “Hey, nerds, what the hell are you on about?”

Meira gasps for air and wipes the tears of laughter from her eyes. Another little giggle shakes her before she manages to get control of herself, and she still feels on the verge of hysterical cackling. So that’s what existential terror followed by pure relief feels like. “So, in the legend of sleeping beauty, the princess is cursed to sleep for a hundred years on her sixteenth birthday, right?” She prompts.

“Right.” Dean says.

“Wrong.” Meira corrects. “She was cursed to _die_ on her birthday. And then the last little fairy that hadn’t given her a gift yet tried to undo it. She couldn’t, of course, the evil fairy was too strong for her to combat alone, but she mitigated it, and made it so that, in the end, the princess could be saved.”

“You’re saying that, what, we somehow magically made the curse less potent?” Dean demands, utterly bewildered. “When did that happen?”

“Yeah, I still don’t quite get that bit.” Sam agrees, breathless and grinning despite his confusion.

Meira beams at them both. “When we came back.” Both brothers just _look_ their absolute incomprehension at her, and she rolls her eyes. “The curse was to punish the white man for his cruelty, selfishness, and greed. Tell me what’s kinder, more selfless, or more charitable, than walking into certain death to save someone else.” Comprehension starts to dawn on Sam’s face. Dean just looks sceptical. “Sure, it’d never be enough to break the curse, but to mitigate it? To make it so that we didn’t have to last _quite_ as long as we should have? To give us a _chance_ , just a chance, to make it out the other side?” Meira doesn’t bother to actually answer the question out loud, just gestures around them at the clear dawn sky they absolutely should not have lived to see.

They settle into a dazed but peaceful silence as everyone absorbs that. Then Dean asks “Does that make Matt here Sleeping Beauty?” and entirely ruins the moment.

Meira collapses into giggles again at the confused look on Matt’s face, like he’s not sure whether he ought to be insulted or not. Sam coughs into his fist, trying to hide his grin. “Probably.” He agrees, fighting hard to keep his voice even.

Dean shakes his head incredulously, and then throws his hands in the air, and turns away from the insanity. On the way, he claps Matt on the shoulder. “Congratulations, Matt. Looks like you rate fairy godparents now. Gimme one second and I’ll magic you up a sparkly gown and glass slippers.” He mocks.

Which does not at all help Meira get her laughter under control. It gets worse when Matt looks down at his thoroughly moth-eaten clothes and his expression turns genuinely considering. “At this point, I almost wouldn’t say no.” He drawls, and Dean barks out a laugh, patting his shoulder more comfortingly this time, before going to fuss over his car.

* * *

**Oasis Plains, Oklahoma – Monday 27 th  March 2006 **

By the next day, although she still looks a little patchwork, the Impala is back in running order. Dean shelled out an impressive bribe to kick a mechanic out of his garage for half a day to work on her. She needed a thorough cleaning, replacement rims, new tyres, and new leather on the seats, but other than that, she’d held up impressively well. Sam bailed on them, but Meira loitered about handing her dad tools and lugging tyres about, enjoying the fond nostalgia of it all. It’s going to take another day to strip the last of the old paint and repaint her, but they’ll wait on that until after they’ve checked in on the Pikes.

Good thing, too, because when they get there, they find the moving van already parked outside and mostly full.

“What, no goodbye?” Dean asks Larry as they join him by the back of the van. Larry looks almost as bad as the rest of them, with raised red stings and miniature bite marks littering every inch of visible skin, but despite that, he looks fairly cheerful.

“Good timing.” Larry replies, shaking Dean’s hand, and then Meira’s. “Another hour and we’d have been gone.”

“For good?” Sam asks, also offering his hand. Larry promises that yes, he means for good, but Meira is distracted from the conversation when Matt appears, and she heads over to walk next to him as he carts a box over to the garbage bins.

“Hey, you doing okay, Princess?” Meira asks.

Matt snorts. “You’re never going to stop calling me that, are you?” He asks dryly.

Meira shrugs. “If it really bugs you.” She says, and then winces at what she just said. “ _Bothers_ you.” She corrects, making Matt bark out a startled laugh. “I’ll stop if it bothers you.”

Matt considers, then shrugs, and starts dumping the contents of his box into the garbage. “Not really. It is kind of funny.” He acknowledges, then shakes his head. “Scariest night of my freaking life, and it was literally something out of a fairytale. Disney movies made it all seem a lot less terrifying.”

“Yeah.” Meira agrees sympathetically. “You gonna be okay?” She checks again.

Matt glances up at her and smiles. “Yeah, I think so. I mean, I’m never going to look at an insect the same way ever again-” He gives a small shudder, and then upends the rest of his box of amateur entomology paraphernalia into the trash. “-but I’ll deal.”

“Good.” Meira says, then sticks her hands in her pockets. “You got your phone on you?” She asks.

Matt blinks, thrown. “Yeah, why?”

“Since we’re all out of magic wands and wishing wells, I figure you need _some_ way of getting in touch with your fairy godmother in case you run into anything else you want back up for, Princess.” Meira teases. Laughing, Matt pulls out his phone, and they exchange numbers.

“Thanks.” Matt says, once their phones are tucked away again.

“No problem.” Meira assures him, and then a call has her looking over to see Larry approaching, Sam and Dean behind him ambling back to the car, and Meira figures their duty is done and it’s time to go. “You take care of yourself, Matt.” She says, and he nods, leaning into his dad when Larry puts an arm around his shoulders. “Don’t go kissing any frogs!” Meira calls over her shoulder as she jogs back to the Impala.


	8. Like Pillars of Flame

**Fayetteville, Arkansas – Wednesday 29 th March 2006**

Meira is glad the Impala is back to looking like her proper self, and she gives the car’s hood a pat as she passes it on her way to Sam and Dean’s room. She’s starting to understand how attached her dad has always been to his car. It used to baffle her, in a fond sort of way, but then, before this little jaunt through time, she’d always had a home. Now, she doesn’t. There is nowhere in the world that she feels entirely safe anymore, nowhere that she can really _relax_. Except, maybe, the back seat of her dad’s car.

Dean lets her into the room without fanfare, and Meira claims a spot at the table to help him look for a new job. Sam, on the other hand, is sitting up against his headboard, sketching something, and doesn’t even look up when Dean starts rattling off options. “Hey, am I boring you with this hunting evil stuff?” Dean bitches.

“No, I’m listening.” Sam assures him in the least convincing tone possible. Curious what’s got him so absorbed, Meira gets up and hops over Dean’s bed instead of walking around it, ignoring his indignant ‘hey’, to peer over Sam’s shoulder. He’s drawing a tree. Over and over again. That’s not exactly reassuring behaviour, and Meira is about to ask him what’s wrong, when she realises it’s a familiar tree. Infinite angelic memory makes it easy to call up where she’s seen it before. On the wall at home, an old faded photo of Dad and Uncle Sam when they were little.

“Sam?” Meira asks cautiously, and that catches Dean’s attention in an instant.

“Wait, I’ve seen this.” Sam says slowly, and then lunges up off the bed to fetch his dad’s journal and pull the exact picture Meira was just thinking about out of the flap on the inside of the front cover. “I know where we have to go next.” Sam says urgently.

“Where?” Dean and Meira ask in slightly discordant unison.

“Back home. Back to Kansas.”

The little not-a-laugh that Dean lets out at that puts Meira on edge for a reason she can’t quite put her finger on, and she frowns between the brothers, not sure who she should be looking to for an explanation. “Okay, random. Where’d that come from?” Dean demands. Sam tries to explain, hedging around the issue in ways that make Meira feel weirdly self-conscious. God, she hopes she doesn’t sound that obvious when _she’s_ trying to hide how she knows stuff.

“Just trust me on this, okay?” Sam says finally, dodging Dean’s questions both verbally and physically; leaping up to start packing. Meira watches him incredulously. Does he really think that’s going to work? With _Dad_? There are ways to ask for the benefit of the doubt with Dad, but that is sure as hell not one of them.

Dean pushes, like Meira could have told Sam he would, and eventually, Sam relents, turning to face his brother with a strangely defiant sort of resignation. “I have these nightmares.” Sam states.

“I’ve noticed.” Dean prompts.

“And sometimes, they come true.”

Oh, right. Meira feels a little of the tension that had been building slide right out of her. She remembers that story, too. It’s a little discomfiting because she knows this as the prelude to the Apocalypse story. Which, admittedly, was one of her absolute favourites as a kid, but that was because Dad always told it like a love story. An epic one, like Lord of the Rings, but still, a love story with a happy ending. Now that she’s older, now that she’s sitting on _this_ side of the Apocalypse, it’s not necessarily quite as fun to contemplate. But that just means that, yeah, okay, Sam does actually have a good reason to want to go back to Kansas.

Dean makes that little not-a-laugh sound again, and if Meira had been starting to relax, she certainly isn’t anymore. “Come again?”

“Look, Dean… I dreamt about Jessica’s death. For _days_ before it happened.” Sam says

It takes Dean a moment to find words, but when he does, they’re enough to make Meira go cold. “Sam, people have weird dreams, man. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.”

“You don’t really believe that.” Meira says quietly. Dean looks at her sharply, but it wasn’t a question. Meira knows full well that Dean doesn’t believe what he’s saying. He just wants to, because he doesn’t want to think that Sam might be… something other than baseline human. God, if that’s how he looks when he thinks Sam, the brother he went to _Hell_ for, has a few measly prophetic dreams, what would he look like if he got even an inkling of what Meira, for all intents and purposes a stranger, really is?

“Dean.” Sam insists, drawing his brother’s eyes back to him like a lodestone. “First time, I dreamed about Jess, and now I’m dreaming about our old house? With some woman inside screaming for help? I mean, that’s where it all started, man. This has to mean something, right?”

Dean looks _scared_. It’s like a punch to Meira’s gut. She tries to be subtle when she sits down next to him, make it seem like she chose to do it, rather than that she suddenly wasn’t sure her knees would continue to keep her upright. “I don’t know.” Dean says, and Meira leans into his shoulder in a pathetic attempt at comfort.

“Wh-what do you mean, you don’t know?!” Sam blurts out, rapid and frantic. Meira gives him a ‘not helping’ glare, and he blinks at her, startled.

Meira nudges Dean’s shoulder with her own. “Whatever else it might or might not mean, one thing we can be pretty sure of is that there’s a woman out there who needs help.” She says quietly.

“Jesus, I can’t-” Dean swears, lurching up off the bed and starting to pace. He scrubs a hand over his mouth as he turns back to stare at Sam, wide-eyed and edging towards panic. Meira tries not to let on just how much seeing that look on her Dad’s face fucks her up. She’s seen it exactly _once_ before in her life, and it was the first time she really realised what it meant that most everyone and their grandma in heaven and hell had decided she didn’t deserve to live. He does the not-a-laugh thing yet again, and Meira finally realises why she found it so chilling. That’s _fear_ it’s covering for. “I mean, first you tell me that you’ve got the Shining, Sam? And then you tell me that I’ve gotta go back home?” He demands. “Especially when I-…”

“When what?” Sam pushes.

“When I swore to myself that I would never go back there?” Dean finishes, voice thick with emotion and unshed tears.

Oh, god, Meira really wants her dad to stop looking like that. “Dean…” She says, and only barely manages to keep her own voice from shaking. “Look, if you- Me and Sam can go check this out by ourselves, if-” Meira begins.

“What? _No!_ ” Dean snaps, so ferociously that Meira shuts right up and goes very still, bracing for the telling-off of a lifetime. It doesn’t come, of course, because this Dean isn’t her dad. Instead what she gets is “Jesus, _fine_.” and Dean starting to pack his duffel.

* * *

**Lawrence, Kansas – Wednesday 29 th  March 2006 **

Meira feels vaguely out of place in Sam and Dean’s childhood home. Even though it’s technically a part of her history, too, if a little removed, she still feels like she’s intruding, so she keeps mostly to herself while Sam and Dean chat with Jenny about the house, and she perfectly describes the effects of a haunting. Meira’s instinct says poltergeist, since Jenny hasn’t seen any human figures, and if any place was going to manifest malicious energy, it would be a place where Azazel tainted the innocent and murdered a mother for defending her child.

Of course, then Sari says, of the thing in her closet, “it came into my room, and it was on fire,” and Meira feels a little shiver run down her spine. It also sounds more like a ghost than a poltergeist, and kind of like a specific ghost, at that. Though if Mary – Meira’s _grandmother_ – hadn’t had anything to anchor her identity, she might have become a poltergeist, losing enough of her identity to become simply manifest impulses.

Sam is in full, frantic, swing as they leave the house, furiously defending the decision to come here. “Yeah, well, I’m just freaked out that your weirdo visions are coming true.” Dean says, defensive and uncomfortable.

“It’s not that strange.” Meira points out before she can help herself. There’s a part of her that just wants to leave well enough alone, not get in the middle of this, keep her secrets curled up close to her chest, but the bigger part of her just wants her dad to stop _saying_ things like that. “We’ve met psychics before.”

“What?” Dean asks, stopping beside the Impala and turning to her.

Meira raises her eyebrows at him. “Lucas, Lucas Barr, he’s a medium, and Joe Whitetree was _some_ variation of psychic.” She reminds him.

“Yeah, but they didn’t just pop up outta nowhere.” Dean retorts. “Lucas got mind-whammied by a freaking ghost. This is just…” He gestures uselessly in Sam’s direction.

“Sometimes psychic abilities manifest with adolescence.”

“Sam’s a little old for that.” Dean retorts flatly.

“True.” Meira acknowledges. Then she shrugs. “I’m not saying I can explain it, I’m just saying, it’s not _that_ weird. Three days ago you held off a two-hundred year old curse with the power of your soul, and now you’re freaking out because Sam’s having prophetic dreams?”

Dean pulls a face. “Still not sure how I feel about _that_ either, to be honest.”

Meira raises an eyebrow at him. “You know it’s something that every single human being on this planet is capable of, right?” She tells him. “It’s where the myth about vampires needing permission to cross a threshold comes from. People just attributed it to the wrong side of the equation.”

“I didn’t know that, actually, but it’s still freaking weird.” Dean says.

“Look,” Sam interrupts, “let’s just forget about that for a minute, alright? The thing in the house.” He presses, gesturing back the way they came. “Do you think it’s the thing that killed Mom and Jessica?” He demands, frantic.

Meira glances at Dean to see what he’ll say, only to find him looking over at her. “I don’t know.” Dean says finally, shaking his head. “I don’t know, Sam.”

“Well, do you think it’s come back, or has it been here the whole time?” Sam wonders, as if he hadn’t even heard Dean, as if he’s just assuming that obviously the answer has to be yes. Like maybe he needs it to be yes, and he can’t compute any other answer.

“ _If_ it is the thing that killed your mom and your girlfriend-” Meira says, stressing the first word firmly. Sam probably won’t acknowledge that, either, but she figures it won’t hurt to keep reminding him. It might make the disappointment when it _isn’t_ Azazel a little easier to bear. “-then you know it hasn’t been here the whole time.” She points out. “Since it was in Palo Alto half a year ago.”

Sam flinches, and then rallies. “Well, those people are in danger! We have to get them outta that house!”

“And we will.” Dean assures him, opening the driver’s side door.

“No.” Sam insists. “I mean _now_.”

“And how are you gonna do that, huh?” Dean fires back. “You got a story she’s gonna believe?”

Sam obviously doesn’t, but he doesn’t quite admit that. He only asks, “Then what are we supposed to do?” like the lack of available solutions might, somehow, make the problem moot.

“Well, first, how about we stop loitering on the street and making the nice lady nervous.” Meira suggests, nodding back towards the house. There’s a face peering out at them from the downstairs window. Sam and Dean glance back, see that they’re being watch, and offer quick waves before meekly getting into the car and driving off.

Dean stops at the first gas station they come across, and starts filling up the Impala while they discuss the case. Meira perches cross-legged on the top of the trunk, and tries not to visibly react as her dad recounts his memory of the night his mom died. “I remember the fire. The heat.” He swallows. “Then I carried you out the front door.”

Meira blinks, and feels a little like smacking herself. No wonder he’d reacted so badly to the idea of Sam coming back here without him, even with Meira for back up. Jesus, that was stupid of her. They discuss their next step, while Meira debates the notion of apologising for stepping on that nerve. She knows her dad’ll probably brush it off, but Qaada instilled the habit of verbally acknowledging feelings of guilt in her, no matter their reception, and it’s a hard habit to break. Made harder by the fact so far in her life, it’s pretty much always helped.

Dean excuses himself without actually answering Sam’s question, which is a glaring neon ‘no, this does not feel like just another job’ to Meira, and, going by the expression on his face, to Sam, too. After a moment that drags out uncomfortably, Meira sighs, and hops down off the trunk. “Be right back.” She says, and heads after Dean.

She regrets it immediately when she rounds the corner and hears the tail end of what sounds like a message for his dad. “-don’t know what to do. So, whatever you’re doing, if you could get here. Please. I need your help, Dad.”

Shit, shit, _shit_. Meira knows that her parents aren’t infallible, and that her dad, at least, is entirely human, but there’s something about hearing that waver and shake in his voice that sends sheer instinctive panic lancing through her. Even though she knows this isn’t anything more dangerous than every other hunt she’s been on with them, and significantly less dangerous than some, just the fact that it seems overwhelming to her dad makes her want to take off and fly away without looking back.

Then, of course, Dean turns, sees her, and _freezes_. Meira desperately wants to give him a hug, to hold onto him until the world seems a little steadier under her feet, but her rational brain reminds her that this isn’t actually her dad, and he isn’t going to realise she might need comfort right now, and probably won’t take well to being offered comfort in turn. Sure enough, he’s already squaring his shoulders and setting his jaw and trying to pretend nothing’s wrong. “You gotta take a piss, too? Make it quick.” He instructs gruffly, making to walk past her.

“No, I, uh, was actually coming to apologise.” Meira says, before he can get more than a step past her. He turns back, frowning.

“What for?” He demands in a belligerent sort of tone.

“For suggesting Sam come here without you. It was stupid, and I wasn’t thinking.” She explains. “I’m a-” She stops and looks away. “I _was_ a big sibling, too. I should have realised it was a shitty thing to say and kept my trap shut.”

Dean gives her a scrunched up ‘what the fuck’ sort of expression, and then shakes his head. “It’s fine, whatever.” He dismisses, and Meira manages a grateful smile that seems to take some of the bristling tension out of Dean. “I knew Sammy was going to come whether I came with him or not.” He says without looking at her. “Just didn’t want to admit that it meant I was just going to have to man up and get over myself.”

Meira nods her understanding, and then decides she needs to say _something_. “I know it’s not the same as having your dad here, but-”

Dean’s expression hardens the moment the word ‘dad’ leaves Meira’s mouth, and he cuts her off with a sharp “I’m _fine_ , just forget about it,” that’s almost enough to stop her saying anything else. Almost, because she can still remember how his voice shook when he was on the phone.

“Dean, if anyone in the world could understand how you feel right now, it’s me.” Meira says, pointed, and Dean scowls at her. “Do you think I wouldn’t give just about _anything_ to-” She nearly chokes on a laugh that’s half a sob. “-to have _my_ dad here with me? I’ve never done anything like this on my own before, I don’t have _half_ a clue what I’m doing!” She huffs, and looks away. “I know it’s not the same.” She repeats, but she means something different now. “But… You know I’ve got your back, Dean, no matter what’s in that house, right?”

“Yeah.” Dean agrees, voice a little raspy, and not as convinced as Meira would like.

“You and Sam, you’re like family to me.” She adds, because it’s as close as she can get to conveying even a little bit of what she’d do for him and Sam. What little she’s currently capable of, anyway.

After a long moment, Dean nods again. “Yeah, I remember the shapeshifter saying something about that.” He says slowly. “You sure get attached fast.”

It’s not quite scepticism, but it’s more edged than bewilderment, and Meira grimaces at the sting of it, even as she understands why he feels that way. She shrugs, and can’t quite meet his gaze when she replies. “You gave me a place and a purpose when I had nothing.” It’s the only part of it all she can offer him, but it seems to be good enough.

Dean snorts, and manages a smile that’s grim, but honest. “Thanks, I guess.” He says, and then jerks his chin back towards the Impala. “Well, come on, then; our grand purpose awaits.” He mocks, and Meira snickers as she falls into step with him.

* * *

**Lawrence, Kansas – Thursday 30 th  March 2006 **

Listening to John Winchester’s old friend reminisce is an experience for Meira. Out of all her grandfathers, he’s the one who’s had the least impact on her life. Even God, absent as he is, has _some_ presence in her life, if only in the inexplicable nature of her existence, but John Winchester was little more than a vague notion of ‘well of course her dad had a dad of his own once, that’s how families work’.

Dad had mentioned him sometimes, but he never lingered on it, just passing comments here and there. Meira wonders at that, now, because here in the past, John Winchester sure has one hell of a presence, even in his absence.

The mechanic mentions a palm reader, which Meira translates into ‘derogatory term for a psychic’, so they head off to search out a psychic. “Alright, so there are a few psychics and palm readers in town.” Sam tells them, scanning the relevant page in the phone book. “There’s, uh, there’s someone named El Divino, there’s-” He snorts. “-there’s the Mysterious Mister Fortinsky, uh, Missouri Moseley, some dude named-”

“Wait, wait.” Dean calls. “Missouri Moseley? That’s a psychic?”

Meira’s breath catches. Moseley. She knows that name.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I guess so.” Sam confirms, and Dean points out a reference that could be to her in their dad’s journal, so off they go. Meira considers ducking out, but her promise to Dean keeps her from seriously trying to find an excuse.

Still, she’s kind of nervous when they find seats in the little waiting room in the front room of Missouri’s house, so instead of sitting, she chooses to prop up a bit of wall, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Thought you were okay with psychics?” Dean asks, making Meira jump. She looks at him in surprise, and he just raises a prompting eyebrow.

“I am.” Meira replies.

Thankfully, before she has to try and fumble for an explanation, the door to Missouri’s parlour opens, and she ushers a customer out. “Alright, there!” She says soothingly, as she passes the stairs. “Don’t you worry about a-” She stops dead, staring at Meira. “Oh my good Lord.” She says, mildly dazed. Meira feels an inappropriate laugh threatening, and she’s kind of tempted to use her pabbi’s stupid joke just to- “Now, don’t you get cheeky with me.” Missouri snaps out, and Meira has to grin, because this is definitely reminding her of more than a few one-sided conversations with-

Missouri sucks in a sharp breath, eyebrows flying up. Meira tries to keep her wince internal, because she really, really doesn’t want Missouri to say anything about what she’s getting from Meira’s head in front of- “Excuse me for just one second.” Missouri says seriously, before turning to her very bewildered customer and showing him out with a smile and another reassurance. Then she closes the door firmly behind him.

“What was all that about?” Dean asks, looking between Meira and Missouri. “You two know each other or something?”

“Or something.” Missouri says, shooting him a judgemental look, before refocusing on Meira. “Oh, you poor girl. Come here, now.” She says, and holds open her arms. Meira swallows thickly, feeling horribly vulnerable and wonderfully _seen_ , then gives in to the urge to step forward to allow Missouri to enfold her in a hug. Just faintly, barely there on the edge of her senses, Meira thinks that maybe she can feel the brush of Missouri’s soul against her grace, and she chokes back a sob, reaching for it. She slams up against a wall of pain, loosing the thread of that bright-warm soul, and doesn’t manage to hold back the whine.

“Silly girl.” Missouri chides, finally drawing back. Once she does, Meira can see that her cheeks are wet, her eyes still brimming over, but the expression on her face is one of awe and wonder. Missouri wipes at her cheeks without any self-consciousness. “My little Patience will be glad to know you’re alright.” She says, with just a touch of deliberation.

“Patience?” Sam asks.

“My granddaughter.” Missouri tells him proudly. “She babysat her a few times.” She adds, nodding towards Meira, and it’s both perfectly true and just ambiguous enough to be entirely misleading. Meira hopes Missouri can tell just how much she appreciates the hell out of her right now. “Come on inside, then, if you’re coming.” Missouri says, already heading back into her parlour, Meira obediently following at her heels. “Don’t just sit there gawking, you two. Move your asses.” Missouri shoots over her shoulder, and Sam and Dean scramble to catch up.

Meira curls up in a seat by the window, wiping her eyes dry. Sam and Dean both shoot her baffled, concerned looks, and she smiles to reassure them, even if it’s a little bit wobbly. Her limbs are still buzzing faintly with remembered pain, but she feels steadier than she has since that first not-a-laugh from her dad yesterday. Hopefully, Missouri will be able to help him and Sam, too.

“Well, let me look at you!” Missouri says to the two of them, and then laughs. “Oh, you boys grew up handsome. And you were one goofy-looking kid, too.” She says to Dean, who looks so thrown by that comment that Meira can’t help but snicker. “Sam.” Missouri sighs, reaching out and taking his hand. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry about your girlfriend. And your father… he’s missing?” She asks in dismay.

Sam and Dean stare at her. “How’d you know all that?” Sam finally asks.

“Well,” Missouri says, quiet and gentle, “you were just thinking it, just now.”

“Well, where is he?” Dean asks urgently. “Is he okay?”

Meira’s heart squeezes in empathy, remembering that message she’d eavesdropped on him leaving. “I’m sorry, I don’t know.” Missouri says softly, putting a hand on his shoulder and giving a comforting squeeze.

“D-don’t know?” Dean echoes incredulously. “W- You’re supposed to be a psychic, right?” He demands, and Meira rolls he eyes at him. Missouri’s hand drops from his shoulder to fist on her hip indignantly.

“Boy, you see me sawing some bony tramp in half? You think I’m a magician?” She demands, so sharply that Dean actually jerks back an inch or two in the face of it. Missouri huffs, and her tone gentles again. “I sense energies, I read thoughts. I can’t just pull facts out of thin air, no matter how much I might wish it. Now sit, please.” She insists, gesturing to the couch and then claiming a chair for herself. After exchanging looks, Sam and Dean sit. “Boy, you put your foot on my coffee table, I’mma whack you with a spoon!” Missouri snaps, pointing at Dean and giving him a hard look.

Dean looks bewildered and faintly guilty. “I didn’t do anything!”

“You were thinking about it.” Missouri retorts warningly.

The words trigger an echo in Meira’s mind, so many iterations of Patience calling ‘don’t even think about it!’ across the huge halls of the Batcave right before Meira could actually cause any trouble at all. It had been infuriating at the time, not even Qaada could stop her _before_ she started in on her plans. During, yes, but not before. But Patience only needed to be in the same room as her, and Meira couldn’t even escape her, because if she tried, she’d just have Jesse chasing her down and bringing her back thrown over his shoulder like a sack of rice.

“Okay, so…” Sam says, a little uncertain, but rallying. “Our dad. When did you first meet him?”

“He came for a reading, a few days after the fire.” Missouri begins. “I just told him was was really out there in the dark. I guess you could say… I drew back the curtains for him.”

“What about the fire?” Dean asks, and the desperation in his voice hurts. “Do you- do you know about what killed our mom?”

Meira proabably doesn’t need to focus for Missouri to pick up the associations in Meira’s head, but she does anyway. She thinks back to bedtime stories when she was young, of realising they weren’t just stories when she wasn’t that much older. She thinks demon, she thinks Azazel, she thinks of sulphur-yellow eyes and all they mean, a Prince of Hell, an _ancient_ evil. Then she can’t help but think of causality, of her dad shooting Azazel with the demon-killing gun, of the intricate workings of time and the question that keeps bothering her that she can’t help but keep answering in the same way. Should she interfere? She’s really not sure she should, but she keeps doing it anyway, because they’re her family, and she can’t just not help them when they need it.

“A little.” Missouri says in a slightly raspy whisper. “Your daddy took me to your house. He was hoping I could… sense the echoes, the fingerprints of this thing.” She explains in a voice that shakes, ever so slightly. Meira wonders if she should apologise for dumping so much onto her, but Missouri shakes her head, and Meira’s almost sure it’s meant for her.

“And could you?” Sam asks desperately.

“I could.” Missouri confirms. “I didn’t know what I was feeling, then, only that it was evil. Pure evil. Now, I know a little better what demonic residue feels like.” She muses tiredly.

“A demon.” Dean says thickly, then swallows, and looks over at Meira. She looks back steadily, and maybe it helps, because Dean’s expression firms up, and he looks less scared than determined. “A _demon_ killed our mom.”

Sam swallows hard, shaking hands clenched into white-knuckled fists on his knees. “ _Why_?” He asks thickly. “Why is it… why did it come back?” He asks, desperate for an answer.

“I don’t know, honey.” Missouri says gently.

“It’s because of me, isn’t it?” Sam asks hollowly. “That’s the only connection between Mom and Jess. Me.”

“No, Sam-!” Dean says sharply.

“It’s _true_!” Sam snaps, lurching up off the couch, pacing away, and then turning back to face his brother. “This is my fault-”

“It’s the _demon’s_ fault.” Meira stresses angrily, startling both of them. She glares at them. “Maybe it is after you, or maybe it just likes pinning pretty blondes to ceilings. Either way, Sam, it’s not _your fault_ that someone chose to _hurt you_.”

Sam opens his mouth, says nothing, and then sits down heavily. “Right.” He agrees, in a tone that suggests that while he understands that she’s right, his emotions haven’t caught up yet.

There’s a dull silence that no one seems to want to break, until Missouri sighs and moves the conversation on with easy practicality. “So… you think something is back in that house?” She prompts them, and Sam and Dean both startle and stare at her in shock.

“Yeah.” Meira confirms, not that Missouri needs it. She knows what they’re thinking.

Missouri bestows her with a fond smile, then shakes her head. “I don’t understand.” She confesses, and they all make suitably prompting noises. “I haven’t been back inside, but I’ve been keeping any eye on the place, and it’s been quiet. No sudden deaths, no freak accidents. Why is it acting up now?” She wonders, frowning into the middle distance.

“I don’t know.” Sam says. “But Dad going missing, and Jessica dying, and now this house all happening at once. It just feels like something’s starting.”

“That’s a comforting thought.” Dean mutters sarcastically.

It really isn’t, especially not when Meira knows exactly what it is that’s starting. “Oh, I’m sure you two boys’ll be able to handle it, whatever’s coming.” Missouri says firmly, and then looks over to Meira pointedly. “You and Meira, here.” Meira manages a grateful smile, because, yeah, at least as long as she hasn’t changed anything too important, her dad and her uncle will make it through to the other side of the Apocalypse in the end. “But in the meantime, perhaps we should go and have another look at that house, hmm?” She goes on, getting to her feet. “See if we can’t figure out what’s going on.”

“Yeah, good idea.” Sam agrees.

Off they go, back to the house, and Missouri gets Jenny to believe them in about half a minute, which Meira is thoroughly impressed by. She wonders if that’s what Patience was like on hunts, before she semi-retired to raise-

“Oh, you’re going to tell me all about that, later.” Missouri says suddenly, not looking around but pointing back at Meira as they climb the stairs. “But not right now, honey, we’re busy.” She chides, and Meira dutifully turns her mind back to demons, fires in nurseries, and the Apocalypse.

“What the fuck?” Dean murmurs.

Meira shrugs. “Mind-reader.” She reminds him, and he pulls a face.

“Stop that or you’ll get stuck that way.” Missouri says without missing a beat, stepping into one of the bedrooms. It turns out to have once been Sam’s nursery. “I don’t know if you boys should be disappointed to relieved, but this ain’t the thing that took your mom.” She says after walking the room for a few minutes.

“Wait, are you sure?” Sam asks, breathless. Missouri nods. “How do you know?”

“It isn’t the same energy I felt the last time I was here.” Missouri explains. “It’s something different.”

“What is it?” Dean asks.

“Not it.” Missouri corrects, walking into Sari’s closet and looking around it. “Them. There’s more than one spirit in this place”

Oh, yeah, that makes total sense. A poltergeist that’s causing the scratching and the lights, and Mary, haunting the room she died in. Perhaps she might even be the reason the poltergeist hasn’t been acting up until now, if she’s been using her own energies to counterbalance it. But poltergeists tend to grow stronger the longer you leave them, soaking up any tiny scrap of energy that matches their purpose from around them.

“What are they doing here?” Dean asks.

“They’re here because of what happened to your family.” Missouri tells him, returning to the group.

“Poltergeists are manifestations of energy. They occur when too much of a single type of energy occurs in one place. It’s not quite _conscious_ , but it has intent, which is defined by the thing that created it. In this case, a demon killed a mother protecting her child. That’s a lot of malicious, murderous energy.” Meira explains. “And it’s been left to fester and grow.”

“So it wants to kill people.” Dean summarises grimly.

“Not just kill them.” Missouri says. “ _Hurt_ them, too, and make them suffer.”

Sam lets out a shaky breath. “You said there was more than one spirit.”

“There is.” Missouri confirms, looking back at the closet. “Poltergeists don’t have a form. The thing Sari’s been seeing, in her closet, that’s a spirit. A human spirit.”

She can see the moment it hits Sam and Dean. The moment they realise that they know exactly who died in this room, in exactly the sort of circumstances best suited to creating ghosts. Dean actually goes pale, eyes too wide as he looks around the room as if half expecting to see Mary manifest right there and then. She doesn’t, of course.

“Mom.” Sam croaks, and he looks just as devastated, eyes shiny with unshed tears.

“I can’t say for sure.” Missouri tells them both very gently, reaching out and taking hold of their hands, Sam’s in her left, Dean’s in her right, and giving them both a comforting squeeze. “But it’s possible. It is possible.”

“Well,” Dean says, in a voice that’s too rough and shakes faintly. He doesn’t let it stop him. “One thing’s for damn sure. Nobody’s dying in this house, ever again.” He declares fiercely. Then he looks to Missouri. “So, do you have everything we need for a purification ritual, or are we going to have to go shopping?”

Missouri smiles. “I have it.” She assures him. So it’s back to Missouri’s house they go to start putting together the purification sachets.

“This isn’t the recipe Dad used.” Dean comments as he’s mixing together the ingredients, one bag at a time, passing them off to Sam to bind them with copper wire.

“No, I gave your father a basic recipe.” Missouri tells him, mirroring Dean on the other side of the table, and passing each of her completed bags off to Meira. “This is a little more… specific, since I know what kind of poltergeist we’re dealing with.”

“Archangel root, for banishing demonic energy.” Meira says, lips twitching faintly as she glances over at Missouri, who gives her a wide-eyed innocent look in response that Meira doesn’t believe at all. “Crossroads dirt, for connecting the physical presence of the sachet to the spiritual world. Van Van oil…” Meira sniffs carefully at the oil. “Actual vervain, not lemongrass?”

“Lemongrass is just as good for general purification, sure, but if you’re dealing with demons? Vervain.” Missouri insists. “It’s a holy plant, after all.”

“It’s also an aphrodisiac.” Meira retorts, amused.

“Nothing so holy as love.” Missouri agrees with a wicked smirk, while Dean chokes on his startled laughter. “Then just a little bit of salt to keep the poltergeist from interfering with the bags, a few other herbs to ward off evil, and copper to tie it all together, as a conductor for the magic.” Missouri concludes.

“And they need to go on the boundary of the thing the poltergeist is attached to, right?” Dean checks. “So, what, do we bury them around the edges of the garden?”

“Into the walls of the house would be better, I should think. That’s a much more solid boundary.” Missouri muses. Dean frowns, like he might be about to argue.

“Threshold magic.” Meira reminds him.

Dean thinks about that for a moment, then grimaces in a way that looks vaguely acknowledging. “Punching holes in the drywall.” He mutters. “Jenny’s gonna love that.”

“She’ll live.” Missouri points out with a touch of dark humour to her voice. “I think we oughta put some on every floor, just to be safe.” She goes on more practically. “At the North-most point first, then West, South, and East.”

“…Anti-clockwise?” Sam asks cautiously. “I thought that was the direction of evil magic.”

Missouri snorts. “Amateurs.” She scoffs.

“To be fair,” Meira says through her laughter, “it _is_ used in a lot of evil magic.” Missouri just looks unimpressed, so Meira turns her grin on Sam and Dean. “It’s true purpose, though, is _undoing_. If you want to create something, you work deosil, if you want to destroy something, you work widdershins.”

“Ah.” Sam says, nodding. “And since we’re trying to destroy the poltergeist…”

“Exactly.” Missouri confirms. “Of course, the moment we get started, the poltergeist is going to figure out what we’re trying to do, and it’s not going to be happy.”

“Oh, great.” Dean grumbles. “Not only do we gotta vandalise the place, we gotta do it while the house is _attacking us_.”

“Are you a hunter or aren’t you?” Missouri challenges, which puts a mulish expression on Dean’s face, but it does stop him complaining, which is what Meira figures she was after. “And don’t worry, honey.” Missouri adds, looking over at Sam, who raises his eyebrows, startled. “Your mom’s spirit is going to be just fine. That’s why I picked this recipe. It only works on demonic energy, spirits with truly evil intentions. It won’t hurt your mom, she won’t even feel it, I promise.”

Sam blinks rapidly, and his shoulders come down out of a hunch Meira hadn’t even noticed he was sinking into. “Oh. Um, thanks.” He says, while Dean looks up sharply, bewildered, then catches on and breathes out a relieved oath.

Meira snickers at them. “When are you two going to get used to the fact that Missouri can _read minds_?” She asks them.

“Never.” Dean swears, which is so not true, and Meira knows that for a fact.

Once the purification sachets are complete, and they’re all kitted out with hammers and axes, they head back over to Jenny’s house. She looks nervous when she opens the door, but she welcomes them in all the same. “So, what- what do you… need to do?” She asks uncertainly.

“We’re just going to purify the house.” Missouri assures her. “That’s all. You don’t need to worry. I know these two look scary, but they’re good boys, I promise.” Jenny blushes, embarrassed, while Sam and Dean exchange looks and try to make themselves look less scary. Funny thing is, it actually works. Sam’s expression of eager helpfulness makes him look like a puppy, and Dean’s hopeful grin is ridiculously endearing.

“Yeah, out of the three of us, I’m the scoundrel here.” Meira adds, winking at Jenny, who goes even pinker.

Missouri cuffs her around the ear, making her yelp and duck away. “Don’t make the poor lady uncomfortable!” Missouri chides. “Good grief, you are _just_ like your father.” Meira grins, warmed through by the comment even though she knows it wasn’t meant as a compliment.

The interplay does make Jenny relax, and she huffs a laugh that’s only faintly nervous. “Alright. Come on, Richie, Sari, let’s get your coats and shoes on.” She says, and goes to help Richie with his shoes, while Sari obediently fetches her coat.

“Are you going to make the thing in my closet go away?” She asks solemnly.

Sam and Dean exchange torn looks, apparently unable to find an explanation, so Meira crouches down in front of Sari. “I know it looks really scary, Sari, but the thing in your closet? It’s actually there to protect you.” She explains. Sari frowns deeply. “The evil thing here, that hurt the man who came to fix the sink, and tried to hurt your brother? Has it ever hurt you?” Sari shakes her head slowly. “Or moved things in your room?” She shakes her head again. “Well, the thing in your closet is why.”

“Really?” Sari asks dubiously. “You’re not just saying that, are you?”

Meira laughs. “Really.”

“Sari, you ready?” Jenny calls, and Sari jolts and rushes off to fetch her shoes.

Meira gets back to her feet, smiling after the kid. Jenny makes sure they’re both dressed warmly, glancing back at the house as Missouri gently ushers her out the door, reassuring her again as they go. “Alright, now.” She says once she’s closed the door behind them. “Sam, Dean, you two take upstairs, Meira and I will handle the basement, and then we’ll deal with this floor together.” She decides.

“Yes, ma’am.” Dean says, very solemnly.

“Now, that’s more like it.” Missouri replies, playing along, and Dean is grinning as he takes the stairs up two at a time, Sam hot on his heels. Meira follows Missouri down into the basement. “Now, while we’ve got a minute or five to ourselves, why don’t you tell me about whatever’s been done to you, hmm?” Missouri prompts, checking her compass and then making a beeline for the north wall. At Meira’s surprise, she gives her a chiding look over her shoulder. “Just because I ain’t never seen an angel before, doesn’t mean I don’t know they ain’t supposed to feel so _caged_.”

Meira flinches at the word, because that’s exactly what it feels like, and just because the cage is technically her own body, doesn’t make it any less restrictive. “I don’t know.” She admits. “I was mid-flight, and it just… hit me, out of nowhere.”

“Mm…” Missouri hums, studying the annoyingly solid brick wall. If Meira had her grace, she could just punch a hole into the brickwork, and then heal it up over the top of the purification sachet, but no. They’re reduced to hard work and improvisation. “They probably didn’t mean to send you here, then, did they?” Missouri asks as she goes about scratching away some of the mortar where it was already cracked to make a hole to push the bag into.

“Nope. They were probably planning to kill me while I was incapacitated.” Meira acknowledges, too used to that sort of thing to get very worked up about it.

Missouri frowns over at her, lips pursed. “Now that just ain’t right.” She mutters, pushing the sachet into the hole she’s made firmly. “I’ll let Jenny know she ought to get someone to seal that up somehow.” Missouri says, half to herself, as she turns towards the west wall. An old chest of drawers stowed away in a corner of the basement comes screeching across the floor towards her, and Meira immediately jumps in the way, getting her foot up just in time to meet the projectile furniture. The impact jars her, but she fortifies herself with grace, and eases the burgeoning ache in her joints while she’s at it. Right now, she doesn’t need to hide what she’s still capable of, and it’s a vicious sort of relief.

“I don’t understand why you don’t just tell them.” Missouri says as she walks calmly past Meira. She checks her compass again, to make sure she has the right spot, and tucking the sachet in behind a cable strung tight across the wall. Meira lunges as fast as she’s able to catch the heavy chunk of wood that crashes down from the beams overhead. “That’s your _daddy_ , surely he’d-”

“He’s not, though.” Meira says, tossing the wood aside and scowling around at the basement. “He’s a _hunter_ , and right now, he doesn’t even believe in angels.”

Missouri clucks her tongue, and they walk side by side over to the south wall, Meira intercepting an assortment of projectiles the poltergeist hurls at them in an attempt to stop them. “Surely he’s seen enough weirdness to believe you if you tell him who you are. That boy’s more than a little damaged, I’ll give you that, but he’s a good soul underneath it all. He wouldn’t kill his little girl in cold blood, no matter what.”

Meira smiles faintly, remembering that time when she’d been little enough that her dad hadn’t expected her to actually understand what he’d been talking about, and he’d asked Pabbi and Qaada why everyone and their hellhound was so convinced she was an archangel, when she couldn’t be. She was supposed to be, metaphysically, the exact same thing as her qaada, only also human. ‘Perhaps she gets it from you, Dean,’ Qaada had said, ‘your soul is far greater than it ought to be, too.’

“Oh, now that’s just adorable.” Missouri says, smiling warmly as she hangs the third little sachet on a large rusty old nail that’s sticking out of the brickwork by half an inch. The nail starts to move, and Meira grabs Missouri and yanks her down just in time for the nail to go shooting through the air where her head had just been at lethal speeds. Missouri harrumphs, and stuffs the fourth bag into the hole left behind by the nail, while Meira darts across the room to get the other sachet back. Missouri is being harassed by a strand of tinsel trailing out of a box of old Christmas ornaments when Meira gets back. She yanks the tinsel away and hands Missouri the sachet. “Thank you.” Missouri says, and then, “ _Well_?”

It takes Meira a moment to remember the question, and then she sighs. “Look, if I tried to explain who I am, I’d have to explain time-travel, and believe me, even now, Dad knows enough to _know_ that time-travel is fucking difficult-”

“Can’t believe archangels have such filthy mouths.” Missouri mutters in complaint, making Meira snicker. Perhaps the rest don’t, she doesn’t know, but Pabbi had never managed to keep his vocabulary clean, not even when Dad had tried, somewhat half-heartedly, to enforce that rule.

Missouri crouches down to shove the last little sachet into a nook made by a couple of boards leaning up against the wall. The moment the sachet is secured, a light ripples out from each of the placed bags, and the odds and ends that were flying through the air towards them loose momentum and clatter to the ground in a discordant rain.

“So, then they’d ask how time-travel is even possible, and that would lead to angels, which would just add to the scepticism, and then they’d ask how I know, and I’d have to tell them what I am, and then, yeah, maybe Dad wouldn’t _kill_ me, but he’d think about it.” Meira asserts, looking away. “I don’t want to have to see that on his face, thanks.”

Missouri sighs, but nods understandingly as they turn and head for the stairs. The moment they reach the ground floor, things start flinging themselves at them again, but they manage to get the first bag planted before Sam and Dean join them, sporting several bruises and, in Sam’s case, an angry red wheel around his throat, but with the four of them working together, the last three go quicker.

They manage to get the last sachet planted in the kitchen wall under a hail of knives that Dean hastily blocks with the kitchen table. The last couple of knives hit the floor instead of the table as light flares through the house, rippling in waves as it banishes the poltergeist. “And _done_.” Missouri says in an eminently satisfied tone of voice.

They all stare around at the wreckage of Jenny’s house, and Meira winces. Dean, grimacing, picks up the two knives not embedded in the table, and tosses them back into the drawer they came from. “Are you sure this is over?” Sam asks warily.

“That light-show was pretty definitive.” Meira points out.

“Why?” Missouri asks. “Why do you ask?”

Sam brushes her off, looking around again with a frown on his face. “Well, I suppose it isn’t technically over.” Meira points out, and Sam and Dean snap to attention. Meira gestures around them pointedly. “Do you really want Jenny to come back to see her house looking like this?” She prompts, then checks her phone for the time. “If they went to see a movie like we suggested, we’ve got… maybe an hour, an hour and a half to get this place put back to rights.”

“Put back to rights?” Dean echoes incredulously. “The kitchen table’s basically kindling, half the books got shredded, I don’t think there’s a single lamp intact upstairs, there’s gouges in the floors, and a bunch of holes in the walls!”

“That don’t mean we shouldn’t try.” Missouri chides.

Meira pulls out her wallet, digs out a wad of bills, and shoves them at Dean, who takes them with a look of vague alarm “Go find the nearest open furniture store and find us a replacement table. I’ll text you a list of anything else you need to get.” This would be _so_ much easier if Meira could fly, but as it is, she’s not sure an hour and a half is long enough.

“Well, what are you waiting for?!” Missouri snaps when Dean doesn’t move. “ _Go_!” Dean goes.

The rest of them get busy cleaning. They clear out everything irreparable first, and Meira texts Dean a list of things to buy, including rugs to hide the damaged floor, then Sam and Missouri set about tidying the things that aren’t broken, while Meira updates the list to include replacement groceries, crockery, and books.

“Hey, Missouri?” Meira asks, a thought popping into her head.

“No, they didn’t, and no, not that I’m aware of.”

Beaming, Meira nods, ignoring Sam’s baffled look, and heads into the kitchen to start cooking. Once she’s got a moment, she sends Dean another text with a few extra things like a nice tablecloth, maybe some candles and wine. Dean texts back a frowny face. Meira replies with ‘& pie? Ur choice flvr?’ Dean’s next text is just a smiley. Meira goes back to cooking.

Dean gets back just in time, and Sam goes out to help him lug the flat-packed table inside and start putting it together while Dean hauls in the rest of the stuff and Missouri puts it all away. Dean joins Sam in the kitchen with Meira to help put together the extra chairs he bought and set the table. They’re almost done when the door clicks open and the hall lights come on.

“Hello?” Jenny calls, and then rounds the corner enough to see into the kitchen. She stops dead, mouth agape. “I- I don’t… You cooked?” She asks, bewildered.

“It seemed the least we could do after kicking you out of your own house for the evening.” Meira points out. “My dad taught me how to make a _mean_ pasta sauce, I promise. Said the way to _anyone’s_ heart is through their stomach. Which is actually kind of hilarious, if you know who he married.”

“Well, um… Thank you.” Jenny says, bewildered, and ushers Sari and Richie into taking their coats off and going to wash their hands. “Is the- the thing- the-”

“Poltergeist.” Meira supplies, going to drain the pasta, and then stirring some butter in and leaving it to melt while she taste-tests the sauce one last time.

“Right. That.” Jenny says, dazed. “Is it- it’s gone?”

“Yes.” Missouri says, smiling reassuringly. “It’s gone. Can’t feel even a hint of it anymore. Now, come sit down, and let’s eat.” Jenny goes, still looking like she doesn’t have any idea what’s going on. Meira dishes up the pasta, adding the sauce to the grown-ups’ plates, but spooning it into a side bowl for the kids.

“That way, if you decide it’s icky, at least your pasta won’t be ruined.” Meira tells Sari as she places them both in front of her. “But I guarantee, it’s not icky.” Sari grins, tries the sauce, and then, with wide eyes, dumps the whole bowlful right onto her pasta. Richie follows her lead with markedly less enthusiasm, but Meira’s not bothered.

“You have experience with kids.” Jenny says knowingly as Meira finally fills her own place and comes to sit down in one of the two open seats left.

Meira shrugs. “I’ve babysat a couple of times.” She says lightly. “But no, that one comes from my little brother.” She admits. “Such a finicky eater, you wouldn’t believe.” Then she changes the subject, and doesn’t even try to be subtle about the way she props an elbow on the table to lean forward towards Jenny. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Rachel McAdams?”

Jenny blushes. “I- Um-?” She manages. Meira’s smile widens.

“You know, she’s right.” Dean says, in a tone of appreciation. Jenny blushes harder.

“ _Don’t_ make this into a competition.” Sam warns, pointing between Meira and Dean. “Be _nice_.”

“I _was_!” Meira and Dean protest almost in unison, in matching tones of indignation. Jenny snorts, then covers her hand with her mouth as she starts to laugh in earnest, which sets Richie off giggling. Sam and Missouri share a commiserating look across the table.

* * *

**Lawrence, Kansas – Friday 31 st  March 2006 **

Stake out is always a pain, but given that Sam has said that he has a ‘bad feeling’, Meira is willing to accept that this one might be a necessary pain. After all, demon-based powers or not, you don’t argue when a psychic says they have a bad feeling about something.

She’s been trying to distract herself with reading, better to take turns with the mind-numbing task of watching the house, since there are three of them, but her mind keeps wandering. If Sam’s right, which he probably is, because, again, _psychic_ , then there’s still something in that house. It can’t be the poltergeist, because that purification definitely worked, so… Could it be Mary? She’s been there for more than twenty years, which is more than enough time to degrade into little more than a wounded animal, but she really doesn’t want to think that’s right. Not only is it going to be hard to figure out what’s holding her here, since her bones have been very thoroughly burned already, but the idea of asking Sam and Dean to banish their mother’s ghost is too awful to contemplate.

Maybe it’s something else. If Meira’s remembering right, Sam’s visions are very specific, always linked in some way to Azazel and his plot. Which is, at least, a point towards it not being Mary that’s the problem here. Perhaps Azazel comes back? Perhaps another of Azazel’s children is going to turn up? Jenny’s too old to be one of Sam’s generation, but Azazel has been doing this for years, searching for the right bloodline.

Too many maybes, not enough knowledge. Frustrated, Meira slams her book shut and sits up from her sprawl in the back seat, fixing her ponytail as she goes. “So, this bad feeling-” Meira begins, but she’s cut off by Sam saying his brother’s name, sharp with alarm, his focus on the house. Meira’s head snaps around, and sure enough, there’s Jenny at her bedroom window, visibly distressed and banging on the glass.

They’re out of the car and bolting across the street in seconds. “You two grab the kids, I’ll get Jenny.” Dean barks, and Sam and Meira don’t question him.

“Sari?” Meira questions as they tumble in through the front door.

“Richie.” Sam confirms, taking the stairs four at a time with his ridiculous moose legs.

Meira heads for Sari’s room, and stops dead in the doorway. There’s a pillar of fire in the middle of the room, with the vague hints of a transparent human figure inside like shaped glass. Meira freezes in the doorway, arrested by the sight, her pulse thundering in her ears. Sari is standing beside her bed, visibly shaking, and when Meira makes no move but to stare, she whimpers. It’s enough to shatter the moment, and Meira sucks in a startled breath, shaking it off and forcing herself to _focus_. “Sari?” She questions.

“Why is it back?” Sari whispers.

“I don’t know.” Meira admits, walking into the room as calmly as she can while keeping her eyes on Mary’s burning form as she goes. Mary doesn’t move to stop her, or get between her and Sari, so Meira reaches out and takes Sari’s hand. “You okay?”

“I’m scared.” Sari admits, pressing in close to Meira’s side.

Meira doesn’t blame her; Mary looks terrifying. She looks like an avenging angel, and Meira’s an authority on the subject of angels, so she can say that with some conviction. She chokes on a laugh, and addresses the pillar of fire. “You know, you’re supposed to say ‘be not afraid’ when you show up.”

Mary looks at her, and Sari squeaks and shuffles behind her. After a long pause, Meira figures Mary isn’t going to, or can’t, answer her, so she tugs on Sari’s hand and says, “come on,” as she moves past the figure and towards the hall. Getting the kids out is her first priority, not worrying about what it means that Mary doesn’t actually look like herself, and can’t or won’t talk.

Sam appears in the doorway just as they reach it, Richie in his arms, and his eyes go wide and shocked when he sees Mary. “Oh, god.” He says, choked.

Meira can sympathise, she can _so_ sympathise, but now is not the time, so she snaps her fingers in front of Sam’s face, making him startle. “Sam!” She barks, when all he does is stare at _her_ instead of Mary. “The kids.”

“Right.” Sam agrees, looking back into the room one more time before hurrying for the stairs. Meira and Sari follow, Meira making Sari go down the stairs first, and glancing back before she follows in time to see Mary step out of the nursery.

“Fuck.” Meira swears. She doesn’t know what’s going on, exactly, because Mary isn’t trying to hurt them, but _something_ is clearly still wrong, and she’s getting a nasty feeling it has something to do with Mary. She’s half way down the stairs, and can see Sari hesitating there, waiting for her, despite Sam trying to pull her on, when something catches her by the throat. Her feet go out from under her like she’s been clotheslined, but instead of hitting the stairs spine-first, she flies backwards, and her head bangs painfully into the wall.

“Sari, take your brother outside as fast as you can, and don’t look back!” Sam orders sharply, just as the poltergeist drops Meira, and she collapses onto the stairs, tumbling down them to crash into Sam. He manages to keep his feet, but only for a moment before that invisible force drags them out from under him. He falls right on top of Meira, which, _ow_ , and is promptly dragged away by his ankles.

“Sam!” Meira calls, scrambling up and following him into the kitchen, where he’s being flung into cupboards any time he tries to stand up. Meira tries to intercept him, but all that does is get a knife flung at her head. The poltergeist doesn’t seem to want to touch her again, but it’s happy to pin Sam to the wall, and there’s nothing much Meira can do about it.

“Why didn’t the purification work?” Sam grits out.

The answer springs into Meira’s mind as if she already knew and just didn’t want to think about it, and she groans. “Because the poltergeist wasn’t attached to the house.” She says, and as if on cue, Mary walks into the kitchen, still burning, even though that _can’t_ be part of her self-identity.

“Sam?! Sam!” Dean shouts through the house.

“In here!” Meira calls back, torn between relief and dread.

Dean appears in the doorway, sees the burning pillar advancing on Sam, and raises his gun. “No! Don’t!” Sam shouts hastily, but Dean doesn’t shoot. He looks agonised, but he doesn’t lower the gun. “Dean, it’s _Mom_.” Sam implores.

Dean’s lower lip starts trembling, even though the hand holding the gun is steady as a rock. “I know, but-” Dean chokes out. “I can’t let her hurt you, Sammy. She wouldn’t want me to-” He cuts himself off, swallowing hard.

“It’s not her, Dean.” Sam says thickly. “She wouldn’t.”

Slowly, like every moment is a hard won battle, the fire begins to dim and fade, shrinking in towards the outline of a human figure that’s taking on a more clearly defined form in increments, until the person standing there is just Mary, hair loose and untamed, still in the nightgown she died in. She smiles at Dean, pained and proud, and Dean’s gun wobbles as he lowers it. “Mom?” He asks, wavering and uncertain, and Meira remembers to breathe again.

“Dean.” Mary says, stepping forward and reaching out as if to touch his cheek, but she stops short. “I’m proud of you.” She says, and her voice is strangely distant. Like it’s taking her a lot of effort to manifest so clearly. Meira’s heart aches at the thought, and at the tears rolling down Dean’s cheeks.

Mary turns towards Sam, moving past Dean who turns his whole body to follow the movement, eyes locked on Mary like he’s trying to memorise every inch of her face. He probably is. “Sam.” Mary says. Sam lets out an incredulous, delighted, grief-stricken laugh, and tries for a smile even as tears find their way onto his cheeks as well. Mary’s expression falls, briefly, into a frown, as she says “I’m so sorry.”

Sam frowns as well, bewildered. “For what?” He asks in a whisper.

Mary just stares at him, lips pressed together, and doesn’t answer. Meira isn’t even sure she can. Twenty years is such a long time to linger in this world without a physical form to keep you whole. She’s probably been holding on to the memory of her sons as a way to keep even just a piece of herself coherent, and those sentiments could well be all she has left to identify herself by.

She turns, then, and for a brief moment, her gaze fixes on Meira with just the barest hint of a frown. Then she dismisses her, and turns out to face the rest of the room, expression setting into hard lines that remind Meira fiercely of her dad when he’s about to open a can of whoop-ass on something or someone. “ _You_ ,” she begins, her voice stronger and more defined, ferocious, “get out of my house.” The fire returns, engulfing her in flames, but this time, she doesn’t lose her form, or her focus. “And _let go of my son_.”

The fire erupts, burning all the way up to the ceiling and then wisping out without leaving so much as a single curl of smoke behind as Mary dissolves and vanishes. Sam drops to the floor with a grunt that almost, but not quite, covers the faint, choked noise Dean makes. They stand there in silence for several minutes, and Meira forces herself not to do or say anything until Sam and Dean indicate that they’re done processing.

“Now, it’s over.” Sam whispers.

Dean clears his throat and turns away, as if that might hide the fact that he’s wiping away tears. “We oughta let Jenny have her house back.” He says gruffly, and Sam and Meira exchange a look as they follow him outside. After a round of assurances that, no, really, it’s definitely gone now, Jenny decides she’d still rather get a room at a hotel for the rest of the night, and Sam, Dean, and Meira return to their own motel rooms to catch at least a few hours of sleep.

Lying in her bed in her own room, Meira wonders if Sam and Dean are going to actually sleep at all, or if they’re just going to lie there pretending for the sake of each other. She’s certainly not managing to drift off, and she’s not even sure why. It’s not like she ever knew her grandmother, or that she doesn’t know full well that Mary is in heaven, now, finally able to rest after twenty god damn years of being chained to the earth. Was it just unfinished business that was keeping her here? Or was it the poltergeist, the energy of the hellfire that killed her keeping her from moving on? Meira doesn’t know, but it’s not like it’s overly important now that she finally managed to free herself. The poltergeist can’t maintain itself in that house without an anchor, thanks to the purification in the walls, so without Mary, it’s dissipated.

Eventually she drifts off, and wakes up to Dean banging on her door, yelling for her to move her ass. It’s so familiar that it’s a nasty shock to sit up and see not her own bedroom at home, but a dingy motel room. Pushing aside the ache, she gets dressed, packs, and hauls her duffel over to the Impala. “We’re meeting Missouri at Jenny’s place just to double check, and then we’re hitting the road.” Dean informs her, a little gruff, but Meira figures, after yesterday, that’s understandable.

They arrive at the house and Sam goes with Missouri to walk the house and check for spirits, but Jenny calls Dean over before he can follow them. Meira considers loitering, but decides to go with Missouri instead. Just because she got a nasty shock these last couple of days seeing her dad vulnerable doesn’t mean he’s _fragile_ , or that she needs to hover about like an anxious humming bird.

Missouri confirms that she can’t sense any spirits there anymore, not even in what used to be Sam’s nursery. “Not even my mom?” Sam asks hoarsely, eyes flicking up towards the ceiling, and then away again uncomfortably.

“I’m pretty sure if she were still here, the poltergeist would be, too, and we’d know about it already.” Meira points out.

“What makes you so sure?” Sam asks, frowning.

“Poltergeists need an anchor as much as ghosts do, or they dissipate.” Meira reminds him. “It’s just that poltergeists don’t need an anchor for their identity, just their purpose. They haunt the places where their energy manifested, or the people their energy first affected.” She says pointedly.

“Right.” Sam agrees. “So you think the poltergeist was haunting my mom, even though she was a ghost?” He checks, frowning.

“Yeah. And I think… I could be wrong, but I think it was what was holding your mom here, too. She broke that connection last night, so now, they’re both gone.” Meira theorises. She’s really not at all sure, but it’s as good a theory as any.

“Why would she do that?” Sam asks, grief weighing on his tone.

Missouri gives him a fond ‘are you stupid’ sort of look. “Well, to protect her boys, of course.”

Sam looks away, and then gives a ragged laugh. “I don’t even remember her.” He says, staring very intently out of the window. “And now all I have is-” He stops and looks away, but Meira figures she knows how that sentence is supposed to end. It’s got to be hard, knowing that the first and last thing your mother ever said to you was an apology.

Missouri reaches out as if she wants to comfort Sam, an achingly sad expression on her face, but then lets her hand fall without making contact. “Sam, I-” She stops herself, and sighs. “I should have listened to you.” She says, instead of verbalising the apology. Sam looks at her, confused. “You sensed it was still here, didn’t you? Even when I couldn’t.” Missouri explains, shaking her head. “I’ve been doing this a long time, and I ought to know better than to dismiss a bad feeling, even if it ain’t mine.”

Sam nods, understanding an acceptance all in the one gesture, then looks down, shoulders hunched. “What’s…” He glances up, expression crumpled into uncertainty. “What’s happening to me?” He asks in a whisper.

“I know I should have all the answers…” Missouri says, shaking her head. “But I don’t know.”

Meira reaches out and touches Sam’s arm. “You’ll be okay, Sam.” She says, as firmly as she’s able, and he looks at her with a touch of amusement buried in his scepticism. Meira smiles back. “Dean won’t let you be anything otherwise.” She points out, and Sam snorts.

“Sam?! Meira!” Dean calls up the stairs. “You done with your voodoo whatever yet?”

“Speak of the devil.” Sam mutters, and Meira snorts. “Coming!” Sam calls back, and they step out of the door to head downstairs, but are stopped in their tracks by Sari, standing in the hall, with the wide-eyed guilty stare of someone who’s just been caught eavesdropping.

Sam arches an amused eyebrow at her. “Shouldn’t you be in school?” He asks her pointedly.

“Mom said I could have the day off, after what happened.” Sari defends stubbornly. Sam makes an understanding sound through a smile, nodding sagely. Sari wraps her arms around herself with an unhappy pout. “Is the thing in my closet really gone?” She blurts out abruptly.

“Yes, honey, it is.” Missouri assures her.

This doesn’t seem to make Sari any happier, though. She just continues to scowl at the floor as if it’s done her a personal injury. Meira crouches down in front of her. “Sari? What’s wrong?” She asks.

Sari glances at her. “What if the other thing comes back?” She asks. “Or something else happens? You said the thing in my closet was protecting me, so…” She trails off, but she doesn’t need to finish the sentence to get her point across.

“Well, you could give Missouri a call.” Meira tells her. “Or, when I go downstairs, I’m going to make sure your mom has my number, so you could give me a call, too.” She adds. Sari nods, relaxing just a little bit, but not really looking any less worried.

She looks between them all, and then says “I wanna learn how to fight them.”

“Oh, Sari, no.” Sam says at once.

Sari stomps her foot, every inch a petulant child on the verge of throwing a tantrum. “ _Yes_.” She stresses furiously.

Meira snorts before she can help herself, earning a glower from both sides. “Sari, how old are you?”

“Seven.” Sari says, chin kicking up in pride and defiance.

“Okay, so, here’s the deal.” Meira says. “If you really want to fight monsters, if you mean it, you’ll have no problem holding on to that conviction for a few years, right?” She prompts, and Sari scowls mistrustfully. “You prove you’re not going to flake out, and _then_ , maybe Sam and Dean can teach you how to fight. So, give us a ring once you hit sixteen, and then we’ll talk, okay?”

“ _Sixteen_?!” Sari gasps in outrage. “That’s _forever_ away!”

Meira whistles. “Well, if you’re not sure you won’t still want to fight monsters by then, I guess there’s no point in training you now, is there?” She asks fatalistically.

“Fine.” Sari mutters resentfully, and then flees past them into her room and slams the door.

Meira gets to her feet and meets Sam’s reluctant grin with one of her own. “Isn’t sixteen still a little young?” Sam asks as they finally manage to make it to the stairs. “I mean, at least wait until she’s finished high school.”

“At that point, if she’s still sure she wants to, another couple of years isn’t going to make a blind bit of difference.” Meira points out, and Sam tips his head in acknowledgement, although he doesn’t look happy about it.

“There you are. Jesus, what took you so long?” Dean demands when they reach the hall.

“Sari ambushed us.” Meira tells him with a shrug, then turns to Jenny, who’s grimacing faintly. “I promised her I’d make sure you had my number, so that if anything like this happens again, you’ve got someone to call.” She adds.

“Oh, that’s- Yes, good idea.” Jenny agrees, and they exchange numbers.

“You’re gonna need to start printing business cards or something.” Dean comments.

“That’s not actually a terrible idea.” Meira muses. She gestures broadly with dramatic gravitas as she intones, “Meira Novak, paranormal investigator.”

Dean shoves her towards the door. “Get in the car, doofus.” Meira goes with a laugh, waving over her shoulder at Jenny and Missouri.

“You boys ever need any help, you give me a call.” She hears Missouri say sternly.

“Likewise.” Sam says.

“I mean it.” Missouri insists, probably picking up on some strain of reluctance in them, going by how genuine the rebuke sounds. “I won’t be having with none of this macho nonsense from either of you. Don’t you boys be strangers, now, y’hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dean assures her solemnly.

“Now, that’s more like it.” Missouri says, making Dean and Sam both laugh. “And you look after that girl.” She adds, and Meira nearly trips over nothing. “She’s been through a lot, more than most, and she looks up to you boys.”

“Really?” Sam asks, sounding surprised. Meira reaches the Impala, and resists the urge to fold her arms over the roof and bury her face in them. She very deliberately projects her embarrassment and internal screaming towards Missouri, who, of course, ignores her completely.

“Really. She thinks the world of both of you.” Missouri assures them.

“Alright.” Dean agrees, sounding bewildered.

“Alright, then.” Missouri says decisively. “Now, off with you.”

Sam snorts. “Bye, Missouri. Take care, Jenny.” Another round of farewells follow, and then Sam and Dean join her in the Impala. To her eternal gratitude, neither one of them comments on what Missouri’s parting words had been, and instead, they start making their way out of town to the opening bars of Carry On Wayward Son.


	9. Sunstorm

**Rockford, Illinois – Monday 10 th  April 2006 **

Meira stares at the back of Dean’s head as he explains their new job while barrelling down the highway to Rockford. “So, let me get this straight.” She says, in a remarkably calm tone. But then, she’s always been calm when she’s at her most angry. “Your dad sent you coordinates? To a hunt?” She checks.

“Yeah. What part of that is hard to grasp?” Dean asks.

Meira tries, for a moment, to imagine her own dad just up and vanishing, getting a message from _her_ like the one she heard Dean leave, and then, _less than a fortnight later_ just dropping coordinates in her lap. If John Winchester isn’t in Rockford, tied up in some basement somewhere and sending out a distress call to get his sons to come rescue him, Meira thinks she may just punch him when they finally do find him. “Right.” She says coldly.

Dean glances at her over his shoulder briefly. “What’s your problem?”

Meira reminds herself very firmly that it won’t help to yell at her dad, and tries to break her rage down into rational, explainable pieces. “Dean, you’re my friend.” She starts carefully.

“Oh, no conversation that starts like that is ever good.” Dean mutters. Meira glares at him through the rear view mirror. He catches her eye, rolls his own, and lifts a hand off the wheel to gesture for her to continue. “Sorry, go on.”

“You’re my friend.” Meira repeats slowly. “And while I understand that perhaps this is normal for you, the lack of care implicit in your father responding to the message you left him with _coordinates to a job_ infuriates me, because I believe you deserve better.”

Dean gapes at her in the mirror.

“ _Thank you_.” Sam exclaims with emphasis.

“I- That’s- _Lack_ of care?!” Dean demands, bristling.

Meira stares at him, stunned that _that’s_ the part he’s focusing on. But then, it dawns on her, how she would feel if someone tried to tell her that her parents didn’t care about her. Well, not for real, because if someone really said that, she’d laugh in their faces, but… well, this version of her dad, she might believe it. She might not want to, but she can’t say she’s even one hundred percent certain he thinks of her as a friend, never mind something approaching family.

“You deserve better.” Meira repeats, instead of answering him directly, and then looks out of the window so she won’t say anything else stupid, or even worse, start crying. She really, really wants to hug her dad right now, and let him know she appreciates every single moment that he was there for her no matter what.

She’s almost tempted to send up a prayer to Pabbi, even though she knows it’s a terrible idea. Just because she knows, or at least she’s pretty sure, that no matter what time he’s in, Pabbi would recognise who and what she is, and he’d be there, if she asked. She’s not going to, of course, she wouldn’t do that to him unless it was a real emergency, but… it’s tempting, just to remind herself that she’s right, that John’s behaviour really isn’t acceptable.

“Whatever.” Dean scoffs. Out of the corner of her eye, Meira can see Sam looking at his brother in startled surprise. Like maybe he, too, can hear the ‘I don’t believe you’ buried so deep down in that dismissal that Dean probably doesn’t even realise it’s there. The rest of the drive is made in silence.

They stop at the bar they know the dead cop’s partner frequents before they even get rooms, and Meira lets the brothers do their little song and dance before ordering a couple of daiquiris and sneaking them outside when no one’s looking. She joins Dean in leaning against the car, and offers him one. Dean gives her a judging look. “That’s a girl drink.”

Meira stares at him in disbelief. So this is what her dad was like before Pabbi got his claws into him, she thinks in slightly bemused horror. Then she fakes a gasp, and looks down at the glass of bright red alcohol with a cherry stuck on the rim like it’s a revelation. “Oh my god, I didn’t know drinks could have _vaginas_.” She exclaims with exaggerated awe. Dean snorts. Meira gives him a sly look. “I mean, if you don’t want it, more vagina for me.”

“Give me that.” Dean snaps through a begrudging grin, and takes the drink.

Meira grins right back, and relaxes against the Impala to wait for Sam.

* * *

**Rockford, Illinois – Tuesday 11 th  April 2006 **

Breaking into the asylum is ridiculously easy, and almost fun, if Meira lets herself forget why they’re there. They make their way into the south wing, since that’s where most of the disasters seem to be originating from, Dean cracking jokes every step of the way.

“Dean.” Sam says eventually. “When are we going to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” Dean asks, genuinely confused.

“About the fact that Dad’s not here?” Sam prompts.

Meira closes her eyes, half wishing Sam hadn’t brought it up at all. She’d managed to ignore the fact that clearly, John Winchester isn’t here, probably hadn’t even stopped by here on his way somewhere else. If she thinks about it too hard, it makes her want to smite something, and she can’t, which only makes her more angry. What she wouldn’t give to be able to put the fear of god into John Winchester.

Although, she muses darkly, that does bring up a question about God, doesn’t it? She’s never blamed her granddad for not being there, but maybe that’s only because she’s never seen how badly it affected Qaada and Pabbi. But then again, she doesn’t think God has ever swooped in to ask for a fucking favour in response to a prayer for help, either. He’s certainly never done it to her, anyway.

“Oh.” Dean says in a tone of flat irritation. “Uh, let’s see… Never?”

Meira tries to tune out the bickering that follows, poking around in the junk left behind by god knows how many dumbass teenagers on dares. There’s even a mutilated doll lying on one of the tables. It’s horrifying, but not exactly helpful. Silence falls, and Meira breathes a sigh of relief. It’s so hard not getting involved, but she knows she shouldn’t. It’s not her place, even though she kind of wants to shake her dad and tell him that he’s ten times the father John Winchester is showing himself to be.

“It could be a poltergeist.” Meira says, as if she hasn’t heard the last five minutes of conversation. “Old asylums like this? There’s usually enough helpless fury bleeding out of the walls to create something violent.”

“If it was just a poltergeist, we ought to be seeing some sign of it, already.” Dean counters, turning away from Sam to poke around alongside Meira. “They’re rarely patient.”

Meira hums an acknowledgement, because he does have a point. “Well, there are probably a whole load of people who died here, too. And that sort of death really isn’t conducive to letting the spirits rest peacefully afterwards.”

“Haunted asylums are pretty common, yeah.” Dean agrees, picking up and studying a dusty old sign, the sort Meira could picture nailed to an office door. “You know what we gotta do? We gotta find out more about the south wing, see if something happened here specifically.”

With that, he turns and walks out. It takes Sam a minute to bring himself to follow, and Meira waits with him, understanding his frustration acutely. “I don’t get how you can just… get on with the job like that.” He comments as they trail some distance behind Dean. “I mean, I know it’s not personal for you, but…” Sam shakes his head.

“Oh, I’m with you on this one, Sam.” Meira assures him. “It’s not my business, but I’m still very seriously considering decking your dad when we find him anyway for this bullshit.” Sam snorts, expression lightening just a little, and Meira smiles sadly. “But there’s something you’re missing.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sam prompts. “What’s that?”

“People here are being hurt, and we can help.” Meira says simply, and Sam blinks. “Why we’re here doesn’t matter to them, just that we are. John bloody Winchester could’ve been here to help, too, but he chose not to be. That’s on him. I’m here, and I get to choose whether to help or not, and _that_ is on me. So I’m gonna help.”

Sam sighs gustily. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I just hate feeling like I’m…”

“Just doing what he says and letting him get away with it?” Meira suggests when Sam fails to find any words. He nods avidly, and Meira laughs, letting the anger slough away. “I know that one. I mean, my dads were _never_ this bad, but still… sometimes I’d be about to do something, and one of them would be like ‘do the thing’ and suddenly I’m like ‘well, I was gonna, but now you can go fuck yourself’.” Sam laughs, bright and vindicated, and Dean glances back at them as he reaches the front doors, a vaguely suspicious look on his face. “Dad always said I got that contrary streak from Qaada.”

They’re back in the car before Sam says anything more. “I wish we could’ve met them. They sound like pretty awesome people.”

Meira can’t help but smile at that, warmed through and ridiculously amused. “Yeah. They would’ve liked you, too.” She agrees, not sure how she manages to keep her laughter out of her voice, but she does. Sam turns in his seat to offer her a sympathetic smile, and Meira refuses to let it make her sad. Instead, she wonders if she should check up on Aunt Mia. She knows where Qaada and Pabbi are, after all, and what they’re up to, more or less, but she’s not entirely sure where Aunt Mia is. Already hunting, she thinks, but… is this before or after her stint in Europe? Would she mess things up entirely if she tried to introduce her to Sam a decade early?

Probably, but it’s a nice thought, anyway.

They get back to their motel rooms, and a little research directs them to the son of the Chief of Staff, who, it turns out, is also a practising psychiatrist. Dean thinks it’s hilarious to send Sam in as a patient to interrogate the man. Meira rolls her eyes and drags him to a nearby library to do some research of their own as punishment.

Sam catches up to them an hour and a half later, and tells them about the riot. Meira had found a little bit of information about that, but not as much as Sam had gotten out of the doctor, so at least his appointment hadn’t been an entire waste of time. “Alright, so, to sum it up, we’ve got a bunch of violent deaths and a bunch of unrecovered bodies.” Dean says.

“Which could mean a bunch of angry spirits.” Sam concludes.

“Huh, good times.” Dean mutters. “Let’s check out the hospital tonight.”

“Why wait?” Meira wonders as they head back to the car. “Why not go now, see if we can’t find those bodies _without_ having to fend off their spirits at the same time?” She suggests.

“You think we can find their bodies when the whole police force couldn’t?” Sam challenges.

Meira grimaces an acknowledgement. “Guess we’d better stock up on the rock salt, then.” She sighs in resignation. Dean claps her bracingly on the shoulder, and they go and do just that. Then it’s back to the asylum at dusk. As they wander about, Meira tries to wrack her brains, to see if her dad ever mentioned a hunt in an asylum. She thinks he might have, in passing, a sort of ‘oh, yeah, haunted asylum, we tackled one of those once’ sort of ways that is absolutely useless for details on how he and Uncle Sam actually handled the problem.

Then a ghost accosts Sam. “Dean!” He calls sharply, but Dean isn’t the one carrying the shotgun, with his hands full of the EMF meter and all. Meira does know how to handle guns, even if she prefers bladed weapons, her dad made sure of it. “Meira!” Sam adds. Meira levels the shotgun, and then hesitates, frowning.

“Meira!” Dean barks, going for his own shotgun.

“Wait!” Meira shouts back. “Sam, come here.” She orders. Sam shoots her a disbelieving look, but ducks around the spirit and bolts to Dean’s side. The spirit turns and follows, but she’s moving slowly. No flickering, no sudden moves, no telekinesis.

Then Dean shoots her. He rounds on Meira, looking pissed. “What the hell was that?!” He demands.

“She wasn’t attacking!” Meira yelps defensively, gesturing at the space where the spirit had been a few seconds ago.

“Looked pretty aggro from where I was standing!” Dean retorts.

“What the _hell_ , Dean? She was just _there_. She wasn’t even moving fast! What, you usually just go around shooting anybody you don’t like the look of?!” Meira yells.

“When they’re ghosts in the creepy abandoned asylum where people get driven murderously insane? Hell yeah I do!” Dean snaps. Meira flinches, looking away sharply and gritting her teeth. She’d known, hadn’t she? Her dad had told her often enough that it had taken him a long time to open his mind on the topic of supernatural creatures.

“So, shoot first and ask questions later?” Meira asks tiredly.

“Well, yeah.” Dean confirms, like he doesn’t even understand why she feels the need to ask.

“Because that always works out so well.” Meira snipes without looking at him. “Come on, let’s keep looking.” She can feel Sam and Dean silently communicating behind her back, but she doesn’t look. She’s not sure she can deal with this right now.

A clatter catches her attention, and she turns to look into the room it originated from. A glance back shows that Dean and Sam heard it, too, and they flank her as she edges into the room, shotgun held ready, but aimed at the ground. There’s a shape behind an overturned bed, and on creeping closer, Meira can see that it looks human.

“Hey.” She calls quietly, and the shape flinches, startled. “Hey, you alright?” The person moves, peeking out over the edge of the bed, and staring at them with wide eyes. She looks normal, normal enough that Meira’s pretty sure this one isn’t a spirit.

“It’s okay.” Dean says, lowering his own shotgun. He probably came to the same conclusion as Meira, but she’s not going to dwell on that, either. “We’re not going to hurt you. It’s okay.” With that reassurance, the girl stands, slowly edging out from behind the bed. “What’s your name?”

“Katherine. Kat.” The girl says, still shaking.

Dean introduces them all, and they find out that Kat’s there with her boyfriend, who she refuses to leave without. They split up to look for him, which seems like a terrible idea to Meira, but she reminds herself that Sam and Dean can look after themselves. Dean sends Kat with Meira because “You’re the one who’s always so keen to dish out the info, you give her the one-oh-one on how to not die.”

Which is fair, so Meira shrugs and accepts. As they walk, Meira tells Kat about ghosts, about why they linger, how to fend them off, how to get rid of them. In between yelling for Gavin and searching every room they come across.

Meira’s torch flickers and goes out. She closes her eyes in resignation, but only for a moment before she swings her backpack off her shoulder to dis around for the spare. “Ow, you’re hurting me.” Kat whispers, and Meira freezes. Slowly, she turns around, still crouching over her backpack. Kat looks around in the same moment and realises that Meira isn’t even close enough to touch her. The hand on her arm is definitely not Meira’s.

Kat lets out a scream as she’s yanked around and into the room they just searched, the heavy metal door slamming shut behind her. “Kat!” Meira yells, lunging for the door. She plants one foot on the wall and yanks with all her grace behind it. She gets the door halfway open before the spirit notices, and yanks it shut again, just in time for Kat to slam up against it. She screams again. “Kat, calm down!” Meira calls through the door. “Put your back to a wall, tell me what you see!”

“It’s _dark_ \- I can’t-” Kat protests, and then yelps.

“Kat!” Meira barks, heaving on the door. It edges open an inch.

“There’s- there’s a guy, he’s- there’s something wrong with his- Oh, god…!” Kat moans, voice high with terror.

“Alright.” Meira gasps out, still straining against the door. “Listen up, asshole. We’re here to fucking help, but this is _not_ the way to communicate with us. Open the damned door.” She snarls, heaving it another inch, and another. Her muscles pull and tear and heal, and something in her elbow gives way with a nasty pop, but then the door’s open wide enough for Kat to slip through. She does, crawling out under Meira’s leg, and the moment she’s more or less clear, the resistance disappears, and Meira tumbles over backwards, fetching up hard against the wall.

“What the-?” Sam’s voice calls, followed by Dean shouting Meira’s name over another of Kat’s screams as the ghost appears in a flicker, standing over Meira’s sprawled form.

“ _Don’t fucking shoot!_ ” Meira snarls out. “Alright, dumbass, I’m fucking listening.” She adds to the ghost. He crouches down over her, and Meira slips her hand into her pocket to grip the iron knife she’d slipped into her pocket-holster for this hunt, just in case.

“Meira?” Dean calls again, tone worried and edged in warning.

“I’m fine.” Meira assures him. And it’ll even be true in a minute, once whatever’s wrong with her elbow heals up. The spirit leans in, so close that if he were alive, she’d feel him breathing, but of course, all she can feel is the tingling of static, and the clean tang of ozone up her nose.

“ _…one_ …” He rasps in her ear. Meira frowns. “ _…three…_ ” The spirit flickers like a bad TV signal. “ _…seven…_ ” And then he’s gone, like he was never there in the first place.

“Meira, you alright?” Dean demands, crouching down beside her and checking her over for injuries.

“Peachy.” Meira assures him, shoving up on her newly healed arm. “Jesus, what a melodramatic motherfucker.” She grouses, and Dean barks out a laugh that’s mostly relief.

“What did it want?” Sam asks urgently.

“One-three-seven.” Meira reports dutifully. “I’m guessing-”

“Room number.” Sam and Dean say together.

Meira snorts. “Yeah.” She accepts the hand Dean offers to help her up, and shoves the iron knife back into it’s holster. Dean’s eyes track the movement curiously, so Meira draws the knife again and shows it to him. “Iron.” She adds, even though she doesn’t think she needs to. At Dean’s surprise, she shrugs. “I’m open-minded, not _stupid_.” She tells him, and he snorts.

He turns to Kat and Gavin. “Now, you guys ready to leave this place?” He asks, and they both nod avidly. “Okay, you two get them out of here. I’ll go find room one-three-seven.”

“Dean, one of us should go with you.” Sam says before Dean can walk off.

“Dude, the dumbass civilians need their asses watching more than me.” Dean replies, turning back to face his brother. Sam opens his mouth to argue, and Dean points to Meira. “And you watch his ass, okay?” He demands, jerking his head at Sam.

“Jerk.” Sam snaps at him.

“Bitch.” Dean retorts cheerfully, heading down the hall.

“I’d rather watch Kat’s.” Meira grumbles after him good-naturedly. “Alright, but be careful, okay?” She prompts reluctantly. Dean waves her off and vanishes around a corner. Resigned, Sam ushers Kat and Gavin off the other way. He gets them into a rough formation with Meira in the lead and himself bringing up the rear, even though if a spirit was truly determined, nothing would stop them just popping up in the middle of the group anyway. It seems to help Kat and Gavin stay calm.

“So, how do you guys know about all this ghost stuff?” Kat asks after a while of walking in nervous silence.

“It’s kind of our job.” Sam tells her distractedly.

“Why would anyone want a job like that?” Kat asks incredulously.

Meira huffs a small laugh and glances back at her. “Why does anyone become police? A paramedic?” She snorts, and gestures around them. “A psychiatrist?” She shoots another look back, this one at Sam. “Hell, even a lawyer.” Sam’s expression does something complicated, before he relents and smiles a tight little smile.

“You’re saying you do this… because you want to help people?” Kat guesses.

“Yeah.” Meira says finally. “There’s a lot of nasty things out there that need to be stopped before they can hurt people. Someone has to do it, it might as well be me.”

“How do you even _get_ a job like that?” Kat wonders next.

Meira snickers. “Well, sometimes, people wander into haunted buildings, realise the monsters under the bed are real, and have to figure out how to survive.” She points out, sending another glance back at Kat, whose eyes have gone very wide. Meira returns her eyes to the front. “Sometimes it’s worse, and people lose someone they love to monsters, and they figure out how to make sure no one else loses someone. Sometimes, it’s better, and your parents raise you knowing that the supernatural is real and how to keep yourself safe, and you figure, why not help people that way, since there are so few out there who know how?”

“Is that what it was for you?” Kat asks. Meira hums an affirmative. “And what about you?” Kat goes on, and a glance tells Meira she’s looking back at Sam.

“Probably door number two.” Sam says wryly. “I did grow up knowing this stuff, but when I got to choose, I chose to become a lawyer. Then someone I loved got killed, so, here I am.” He summarises grimly. Kat makes a small sound of comprehension and sympathy, and stops asking questions.

When they get to the doors out of the south wing, however, they find them blocked by debris that wasn’t there before and jammed shut. When all the other options have been exhausted, Kat turns to Meira. “You got the other door open, could you open these?”

Meira looks at them dubiously. “Maybe…” She hedges, and kicks a table out of the way to give it a try. She doesn’t want to use her grace in front of Sam, but she does augment her strength a little anyway. It does no good at all. The doors won’t budge. Something doesn’t want them to leave, and Meira’s pretty sure it’s not the patients.

Sam goes to double check for another way out, but when he returns, it’s with the expected negative. Gavin panics, but Kat remains surprisingly calm. Then Sam’s phone rings, and even Meira, with her extra-good hearing, can barely make out Dean’s voice through the spirit-induced crackle. And since there aren’t any around _them_ right now, the crackle is probably coming from Dean’s end.

“Alright, I’m on my way.” Sam says before he hangs up. He glances at Meira, who nods in response to his unasked question, and then goes. Meira watches his back until he’s out of sight, then looks around, and manages to dig a couple of old chairs out of the debris.

“Take a seat guys.” She says, dropping down onto the floor herself, after making sure her chosen spot has a good view of the corridor. “Who knows how long this is going to take.” Reluctantly, Gavin sits, one knee bouncing irregularly. Kat looks between Meira and the other chair, and then drops down to sit on the floor opposite her.

“So why the guns?” Kat asks. “They’re ghosts, so aren’t guns kind of…” She grimaces and doesn’t finish the sentence. Meira grins, and opens up the side pocket of her backpack to fish out one of her spare rounds and toss it to her. Kat studies it for a moment, eyebrows rising. “Is that… salt?” She guesses.

“Rock salt.” Meira confirms.

“Why salt, though?”

Meira considers how to answer that. “Do you know anything about alchemy?” She asks finally.

“I’ve… watched Full Metal Alchemist?” Kat offers helplessly.

Meira snickers. “Well, in alchemy, there are three principle components to life. Body, mind, and soul, right?” She checks that Kat’s following, and she nods. “There are elements that correspond to those three things. Mercury is the essence of the mind. Sulphur, the essence of the soul…” She trails off, giving Kat a prompting look.

“And… salt is the essence of the body?” Kat guesses.

“Exactly. And souls just aren’t meant to exist on this plane without a body. I suppose you could say this plane is toxic to purely spiritual beings. We’re fine, because we’re interacting with it _through_ a physical form, but ghosts?” Meira shrugs. “They don’t have that. Most of this world is just… difficult to interact with, but the distilled essence of the definition of physicality? That is… repellent to them.”

“Oh.” Kat says slowly.

“It’s also why demons tend to leave sulphuric residue.” Meira adds, and waits to see if Kat can follow that through to the reasoning behind it, now that she’s been given the pieces.

“ _Demons_?!” Gavin squeaks.

Kat looks similarly alarmed, but at Meira’s casual shrug-nod, she frowns. “You said sulphur is the essence of the soul, right?” She checks, and Meira nods. “I thought demons were… I don’t know, kind of soulless, or whatever? So why would they…”

Meira shakes her head. “Demons aren’t soulless. Demons _are_ souls.” She corrects. “They’re just mutilated beyond recognition. Like the orcs in Lord of the Rings.” Kat and Gavin both give her blank, uncomprehending looks. Meira can’t believe there are people in the world who don’t _know this_. “Orcs are made out of tortured elves.”

“Oh.” Kat says, and then she startles. “Wait, is the sulphur, like, the demons _bleeding_ or something?”

“Well done!” Meira compliments. “Although I’d probably say it’s more like eczema, or really bad sunburn. They’re _damaged_ , so on this plane, even when they have a physical form to inhabit, bits tend to flake off.”

Kat nods slowly, then narrows her eyes at Meira. “Are you… trying to recruit me?” She asks.

Meira laughs. “Sort of?” She hedges sheepishly. “I’m an avid believer in the idea that more knowledge is better than less. Would I be pleased if you decided you wanted to maybe sort out a haunting or two in your spare time? Sure. Would I be just as pleased if you only ever used it to keep yourself and your loved ones safe? Absolutely.”

“But you’re not telling Gavin all this stuff.” Kat points out.

Meira raises an eyebrow, then tips her head back to look at Gavin. “He has ears, doesn’t he?” She prompts dryly. “So, yeah, I am telling him, too, actually. But I figured he wouldn’t actually be interested in learning more than what he needs to live through tonight.” She raises an eyebrow at Gavin questioningly, and he nods, a little sheepish, but not at all hesitant. Meira looks back at Kat. “You, though, you keep asking questions.” Kat blushes.

“I- Sorry?” She offers with a sheepish smile.

Meira gives her an amused look. “Why are you apologising? A desire for knowledge is sexy as hell.” Kat laughs, incredulous and flattered. “On that subject, can I have your number?” Meira asks, tone playful. “In case you have any more… questions.” She adds with an exaggerated eyebrow wiggle that makes Kat laugh again.

“Oi.” Gavin protests, disgruntled. “Boyfriend sitting right here.”

Meira tips her head back again, and directs a sultry grin at him. “I’ll take your number, too.” She assures him. His jaw drops open and colour suffuses his face.

“You’re serious?” Kat asks, incredulous.

Meira tones down the flirtation, and shrugs. “Half-serious.” She concedes. “Flirtation aside, I really do want your numbers so that if you run into anything like this again, you have someone to call and you’re not left high and dry. But, also, people are beautiful, and sex is fun.” She explains, sheepish, but without an ounce of shame.

Kat blushes again, but pulls out her phone and gives Meira her number. Gavin practically falls over himself to do the same. Meira tries not to laugh at him too obviously. Just as she’s about to send them both a quick text so that they’ll have her number as well, there’s a thunk from around the corner. Meira has her gun up and aimed before the sound of footsteps registers, and she relaxes.

She tenses all over again when Dean comes around the corner alone, and she realises she can’t hear any other footsteps. “What are you sill doing here?” Dean demands.

“Where’s Sam?” Meira asks, in exactly the same moment that Dean does. They stare at each other in alarm. “Shit.” Meira swears, scrambling to her feet. “He got a call from something that sounded like you.” She explains, digging around in her backpack. “It wanted him down in the basement.”

“Right.” Dean sighs, and turns to go.

“Hang on.” Meira calls after him, and he looks back. Meira turns to Kat and Gavin. “Can either one of you handle a shotgun?” She asks. Gavin shakes his head reluctantly, but Kat nods. “Alright, here.” Meira hands over her shotgun, followed by a handful of shells. “Don’t waste them, don’t shoot unless you have to. Remember, some of the spirits here aren’t out to hurt you, but at least one is. Stay here, even if you hear us yelling, and the moment the doors can open, _get out_.”

Kat’s jaw firms, and she nods again. “Got it.”

Meira turns, and moves to Dean’s side. “You’re not leaving them here by themselves.” He says.

“I’m done letting the pair of you wander off without backup.” Meira retorts. “Kat can take care of Gavin.” She assures him, and smirks a little at Gavin’s sigh at being painted as the damsel in distress. Dean opens his mouth to argue, but Meira just shakes her head at him. “Do you want to have this argument, or do you want to go save Sam?”

Dean throws his hands in the air, and marches off, Meira hot on his heels. They make their way to the basement unimpeded, and find Sam lurking in a dark hallway. Meira finds it a little unnerving that he wasn’t answering when Dean called for him, but other than that, he seems fine, so she tries to let go of the nerves. Dean explains his theory of what’s been happening, that the spirit of Dr Ellicott is continuing the experiments he was doing in life, and it makes an awful sort of sense.

Dean goes looking for the secret lab where Ellicott apparently performed his experiments, and after a beat, Sam and Meira follow to help. Or, well, Meira’s plan is to help, Sam’s plan seems to be to protest. Meira stares at him, bewildered and unnerved, wishing she could still see his soul, just to reassure herself that he’s who he’s supposed to be, and not something _pretending_.

Her uncertainty goes right out the window when Sam points a gun at Dean’s back while he’s crouched down, checking out a draft. “Dean!” Meira barks in alarm, darting in and grabbing Sam’s wrist, yanking it up and out. Sam pulls the trigger on reflex, and the rock-salt sprays holes in the wall beside Dean’s head. “What the hell, Sam?!” She demands as they wrestle for control of the gun.

“Get _off_ me!” Sam snarls, and with a stagger and a _shove_ from Sam, they crash through the secret door, very nearly tripping over Dean, who only just managed to get out of the way in time. Meira grits her teeth, frustrated that she daren’t use more than a trickle of her grace, just to keep Sam from getting the advantage.

Then Dean is there, hauling Sam off her, and Sam’s attention redirects at once. “Stop it, Sam!” Dean barks, trying to get Sam in a headlock. “Put the gun down!”

Sam elbows him in the gut. “Is that an order?” He sneers, whirling around. Meira is just thinking about trying to kick out his knees or something when an invisible force yanks her off her feet.

“Meira!” Dean shouts.

“Cause I’m getting pretty tired of taking your orders.” Sam keeps talking like nothing’s happening. Meira doesn’t hear anything that gets said next, because Dr Ellicott is looming over her, pressing a hand to her face, and it _burns_. It rattles through her head over turning every every battened down hatch and gouging up every restraint. Meira remembers what Dean said about Ellicott wanting to evoke rage in his patients, and thinks _shit_. Because that’s bad enough when it’s just human rage. She’s pretty sure Dr Ellicott never had to deal with genuine heavenly wrath before.

That’s the last rational thought she has. Because then something snaps under the onslaught, and everything in Meira’s head turns calm with the force of her fury. She’s angry at Dr Ellicott, for doing this, for hurting so many people and risking the lives of so many more. She’s angry at Sam and Dean, for being too young to know who she is, for being closed-minded enough that she can’t even _tell them_ the truth, forcing her to hide everything she is from people she loves. She’s angry at John fucking Winchester for not being here when her dad needed him, for letting down two of the best people she’s ever known.

She wants to _smite_ something, wants to burn out the evil in the world with all the glory and righteousness that is hers by birthright, but she _can’t_ . Dr Ellicott is _right there_ , and if she had her wings, she could find John Winchester in a heartbeat, and she could _smite them_ as they deserve, but she’s crippled and wingless and impotent because some petty, small-minded _fucker_ some forty fucking years in the future figured out a way to kill her and couldn’t even do that right.

Instead, they bound her to the confines of a human body. Trussed her up like a turkey for Christmas dinner. If there’s anything she hates more in the universe than that binding, she can’t think of it. And it’s right there, pressing against her grace in insidious coils. There’s no restraint left to her, only the fury at being denied her own power, and she lashes out, pushes with all of the weight of her grace behind it, at whatever it is that’s holding her prisoner. She has maybe half a second before the pain hits.

Meira screams.

It’s pure agony, her grace rebounding off the binding like a mirror, and all that scouring wrath is turned inwards, ripping through her, body and soul, flaying her from the inside out. There’s nothing but pain and rage and pain and rage and pain, a feedback loop that she can’t escape but can’t endure. It swallows everything, every thought, every sense, until there’s nothing but the holy fire burning her insides to ash and healing her just to scorch through her all over again.

Distantly, vaguely, Meira wonders why she’s not stopping.

“Meira?! Meira!”

“Don’t hold her down! That looks like a _seizure._ ”

She could stop. She probably should stop.

“Jesus, I thought torching Ellicott would make it _stop_!”

Yes, stopping. She’s doing that, right now. Only the pain doesn’t.

“What the hell did he do to her?”

“I don’t know! Meira, come on! Meira!”

“Dad?” Meira rasps, voice coming out like a frog’s attempt at a whisper, and it hurts. Everything hurts. That doesn’t stop her from trying to reach out towards the source of that voice. A hand catches hers, and it’s not quite right, but it’s not wrong either, and Meira can’t figure out what the hell that means.

“Sorry, s’just me and Sam.” Dad says, which doesn’t make any sense until Meira winches open her eyes and remembers that, oh, yeah, she’s in the past, and Dad doesn’t know he’s her dad. “You okay?” He asks, and then winces like he realises that’s a stupid question.

Meira tries to shrug, and it almost works. “Wh-” She tries, and then stops talking because _ow_. She chooses to mouth the words instead. “What happened?”

“Hell if I know.” Dean tells her. “Dr Ellicott got you, and then you just started screaming.” He pauses, looking strained. “ _Really_ screaming. I think you might have shattered a window or two. Your, uh, your voice gave out maybe a minute and a half in.” Meira winces, because, yeah, she remembers putting grace into her voice before, and if she’d done that now, then shattering windows was a real possibility. Probably a good thing her voice gave out before she started shattering eardrums.

“You had a seizure, too.” Sam adds from her other side, peering down at her in a mixture of apology and bewilderment. Meira grimaces, wanting to swear but knowing she ought to let her voice recover, since she can’t really heal it with grace now that Sam and Dean have noted it. Instead she just tightens her grip on her dad’s hand and gestures vaguely in Sam’s direction.

Thankfully, they get the hint, and together, they help haul her up onto her feet. She staggers once she’s there, every muscle in her body screaming at her, but _that_ she dares to speed the healing of, just enough that she can walk as long as she’s got an arm over her dad’s shoulders. “You sure you’re okay to walk?” Dean checks, and Meira nods determinedly. “Okay, come on, then.”

* * *

**Rockford, Illinois – Wednesday 12 th  April 2006 **

Once they’ve managed to make their way outside, Meira has recovered enough to stand on her own power. She can’t really walk so much as hobble, but she can support her own weight, which is good enough for her. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Kat asks for the third time since she saw Dean half-carrying Meira out of the hospital. Meira quirks a smile and offers her a thumbs up. Kat nods, biting her lip and glancing between the three of them. She hesitates, and then sighs. “Thanks, guys.” She says quietly.

“Yeah, thanks.” Gavin agrees.

Dean nods. “No more haunted asylums, okay?” He prompts. Kat shoot a guilty look at Meira, who grins. Dean catches the exchange, and groans. “Oh, you didn’t.” He huffs. Meira shrugs, unrepentant. Dean points at her. “When you can talk again, we are so having an argument about this.” He informs her. Meira gives him a thumbs up.

Gavin huffs, then swallows and says, “come on,” quietly to Kat. She nods, and they turn to go. After three steps, however, Kat abruptly does a one-eighty and walks right back up to them. She grabs Meira by the front of her coat and pulls her down into a kiss. Meira flails a little, because she really wasn’t expecting that, but she’s definitely on board, so she kisses back, even if moving enough to get her hands up on Kat’s sides makes everything ache.

Then Kat draws back, and Meira gives her what she hopes is a curious but pleased sort of look. Kat smirks a little. “I’ll call you.” She says, with just enough emphasis that Meira realises that she’s playing along with the joke that Meira started, conflating hunting with flirting. Grinning, she leans in and presses a quick, chaste kiss to Kat’s lips in confirmation.

“I thought you were dating him?” Dean asks, nodding to Gavin, who looks mournful.

“We broke up.” Kat states. “I’m only going to kiss people who take me to haunted asylums if they’re competent about it.”

Laughing silently, Meira goes to get in the car with a little wave over her shoulder for Kat. Dean and Sam take a moment to follow, talking over the hood of the Impala. She listens, but she’s not entirely sure what they’re talking about. The tone of it kind of worries her, but she figures, if it’s as much of an issue as she’s afraid it is, it’ll come up again another time, and maybe then she’ll be able to join in the conversation.


	10. The Morning Star

**Rockford, Illinois – Wednesday 12 th  April 2006 **

Meira feels like she only just got to sleep when the banging on her door startles her awake, but the sky is already fading into dusk, so she’s actually slept most of the day away. She goes to call that she’s up, but all that comes out is an unhappy croak, so she rolls over and tries to smother herself with the pillow. Thankfully, Dean took that croak as a ‘come in’ and doesn’t make her get out of bed just to answer the door. “Hey, sorry you can’t get any more beauty sleep, but we’ve got a job, so it’s time to go.” He instructs briskly.

Meira pulls her head up out of her pillow to squint incredulously at Dean, hoping he can read the ‘it can’t wait a few more hours?’ in her expression. She’s pretty sure she’s just going to have to heal her voice with grace and pretend it wasn’t _that_ bad to Sam and Dean, because no way can she deal with not being able to communicate while on a hunt.

“We’ve got our marching orders.” Dean tells her with a shrug that isn’t as apologetic as it’s pretending to be, and Meira closes her eyes. She really doesn’t like the sound of that, but she’s not sure she’s allowed to have an opinion. “Yeah, yeah.” Dean grouses, as though he can read all of the anger she’s _not_ expressing in her face. “Hell, you don’t have to come.”

Meira’s eyes snap open to glare at him for that. “Don’t be a dick.” She snaps right back, letting her voice stay hoarse but healing the worst of the damage as she flings the covers off and grabs up yesterday’s clothes.

“See you at the car in half an hour.” Dean says before the door clicks shut. Meira gets dressed and packs up in record time, then goes to grab a breakfast, or dinner, given the time of day, of chips and candy from the vending machine. She gets to the Impala in time to see Dean tossing Sam the keys. “You drive, I wanna have a look at those names Dad gave us.” Dean says.

Sam looks down at the keys with mulish expression, then slams his way into the driver’s seat. Meira tosses her duffel in the trunk, then climbs wordlessly into the back seat. Sam peels out of the parking lot like the asphalt has personally offended him, and Dean blithely ignores all the signs of Sam’s mounting temper as they leave Rockford behind heading south.

They drive through dusk, while Dean explains the case to Sam and Meira. Mostly, Meira stays quiet, letting Sam ask the questions, and trying to pull anything helpful out of her memory. She doesn’t think her dad ever told her this story, though. Of course, all of her musings come to a screeching halt when the car does. Sam goes so far as to turn the car off once they’ve stopped on the kerb, and says “We’re not going to Indiana.”

Meira has a really bad feeling about this.

“We’re not?” Dean asks, wary.

“No, we’re going to California.” Sam insists. Yeah, Meira figured that’s what this is about. She buries her face in her hands and tries to figure out if she ought to intervene. Not that she can think of what to say, except to beg them to please, god, stop fighting, so she keeps her trap shut right until the argument devolves far enough for Sam to get out of the car.

Dean follows, and Meira scrambles after them, alarmed. “Guys.” She says, voice still hoarse, but usable. She hopes they’re both too pissed off to notice that that’s weird.

“You’re a selfish bastard, you know that?” Dean demands, and Meira winces. She winces again when she realises that Sam is rummaging around in the trunk for his things. “You just do whatever you want, don’t care what anybody thinks.”

“That’s what you really think?” Sam asks snidely.

“ _Guys_.” Meira begs.

“Yes it is.” Dean replies, ignoring Meira entirely.

Sam laughs softly, a sound that’s got no humour in it at all, and fetches his final bag out of the trunk. “Well, this selfish bastard is going to California.” Meira runs a hand back through her hair, utterly ruining her ponytail and not caring because what the hell is she supposed to _do_?

“Could we just _stop_ for a minute?!” She shouts, taking both of them by surprise. It does, at least, finally get their attention. It also hurts like a motherfucker.

“Meira…” Sam says, looking vaguely apologetic somewhere underneath the wounded fury.

“Don’t tell me, you think he’s right.” Dean snaps at her.

“I think you’re _both_ right.” Meira snaps right back. “And if you’d both stop being so _butthurt_ about how unfair it is, you’d be able to see that!”

Dean looks incredulous at that, but Sam scoffs. “Figures you’d side with Dean when it comes right down to it.” He mutters. Meira gapes at him, but he doesn’t stop to explain that piece of nonsense, just turns and starts walking down the road, back the way they came.

“Oh, come on. You can’t be serious.” Dean calls after him.

“I am serious.” Sam shoots back without looking around.

“It’s the middle of the night!” Dean protests. “Hey, I’m taking off, I will-”

Meira grabs his arm, cutting him off. Dean turns to look at her with fury written all over his face, but Meira already feels too sick to be overly affected. “Don’t.” She says quietly. She doesn’t think she can bear to hear her dad making threats like that right now. Dean glares at her, then glares after Sam. Then he turns and slams the boot of the Impala shut.

“ _Son of a bitch._ ” He hisses under his breath, before rounding the car to the driver’s side. He stops there, looks back at Sam one last time, and then turns to Meira again. “Well?” He demands. “What about you? Are you coming, or not?”

Meira feels helpless and uncertain, which is a feeling she’s becoming used to and learning to loathe, so she just shrugs. “What do you want me to do?” She asks finally.

Dean frowns, pissy and confused. “What?” He demands.

“Do you want company and backup, or do you want me to keep an eye on Sam for you?” Meira elaborates, and watches Dean’s expression go slack with shock, all the anger melting off it for a heartbeat, leaving him looking so young and vulnerable that Meira kind of wants to cry. She wishes, briefly, desperately, that Qaada were there to give her a hug, to give _Dad_ a hug.

After a long pause, Dean braces one arm on the top of the Impala and bows his head over it. “Go.” He says, voice almost as rough as Meira’s. Meira swallows hard, but nods, even though he’s not looking, and retrieves her own duffel and backpack from the trunk. Dean hasn’t moved by the time she slams the trunk shut again, but Meira knows she can’t just leave like this. It would hurt too much.

So she rounds the car and puts a hand on Dean’s arm. He looks up, and Meira tugs until he’s facing her so that she can wrap her arms around him and just hold on for a moment. “Be careful.” She says thickly when Dean relents and hugs her back, despite his allergy to emotions. “And if you change your mind, just give me a ring, okay?”

“Yeah.” Dean huffs, then pats her on the shoulder to let her know he’s reached his limit. Meira reluctantly lets him go. “Better get moving, Sammy’s leaving you in the dust.” He says briskly.

Meira manages half a smile. “I’ll keep him safe, Dean.” She promises, because her dad taught her that’s what big siblings are supposed to do. Keep their kid brothers safe. Dean nods, and Meira takes that as her cue to go. She turns and starts jogging after Sam’s retreating figure.

“Meira?” Dean calls after her, and she pauses, turning back, but Dean’s not looking at her. “Thanks.” He says into the night, then yanks the driver’s door open and climbs in.

Meira gives a wave of acknowledgement and farewell, then turns back towards Sam. The rumble and roar of the Impala’s engine nearly drowns out her shout of “Hey, Sam! Wait up!” but thankfully, Sam hears her anyway, and pauses, looking back. When she reaches him, she sees that he looks surprised and a little wary.

“You’re coming with?” He asks cautiously.

“Yeah.” Meira confirms simply.

“What happened to saving people being important?” Sam snipes as he sets off again, a little slower this time, so Meira can fall into step with him without having to hurry to keep up with his massive moose legs. She appreciates the consideration.

“Family is more important.” Meira counters with a shrug.

“This isn’t your fight.” Sam says.

Meira stops walking to stare at him. Sam pauses a few steps further on, and turns back with his eyebrows up near his hairline. “Jesus.” Meira huffs finally, giving up on trying to find words to explain what an idiot Sam is being right now.

* * *

**Somewhere on the Highway – Thursday 13 th  April 2006 **

Running into another hitchhiker sitting on the side of the road is the most interesting thing to happen to them since they started heading towards California. They’ve barely even managed any conversation, because Sam is still fuming and Meira is trying to figure out why her dad never mentioned anything like this. She’s been pretty sure that Dad and Uncle Sam hadn’t actually gone their separate ways between the whole dead girlfriend thing and the going to Hell thing, but here they are, in the absolute middle of nowhere, and Meira’s sense of location is shot to shit because of the binding, she can’t even be sure which State they’re in now.

So nearly tripping over a girl sitting by the side of the road is a fun change from the monotony. She’s listening to music as she watches the road, and doesn’t notice them until Sam taps her on the shoulder, at which point she startles like a wet cat and yanks her earbuds out. “You scared the hell out of me!” She accuses, but with a hint of a smile that suggests she’s more amused than annoyed.

“Sorry.” Sam says, trying to look harmless. “We just thought you might need some help.” He explains, and at the ‘we’ the girl’s eyes flick over to Meira.

She frowns, like she’s trying to work something out, but Meira hasn’t got a clue what might’ve gotten her attention. Sam looks between them with wary curiosity until the girl realises she’s being strange, and shakes her head with a slightly sheepish laugh. “I’m sorry, do I know you from somewhere?” She asks Meira, eyes flicking over her face curiously.

Meira is pretty sure she’s never seen this girl before in her life. There’s a vague possibility that without being able to see her soul, she wouldn’t be able to match up older and younger faces, but even that wouldn’t explain why this girl seems to know her. “I don’t think so?” She says, bewildered.

The girl just laughs. “Yeah, sorry. Maybe you just look like someone famous.” She offers.

Meira feels a something unpleasant curl in her guts, because, well, she’s heard something like that before, but usually only from people who wanted to kill her. She doesn’t respond verbally, just musters up a wry smile and a nonchalant shrug. “So…” Sam says, eager to fill the silence before any awkwardness can seep in. “Where’re you headed?”

“No offence, but no way I’m telling you.” The girl responds laughingly.

“Why not?” Sam asks.

“You could be some kind of freaks.” She says it bluntly, but without rancour. If Meira hadn’t been feeling all kinds of off, what with the uncomfortable reminder of her metaphysical resemblance to the worst person in existence, and worry about her dad, and lingering irritation at Sam, she might have laughed at the girl’s matter-of-fact attitude. “I mean, you are hitchhiking.”

“Well, so are you.” Sam points out.

Then she gets into the van of the most blatantly creepy guy Meira’s met in a while like there’s not a thing to be worried about. As she and Sam watch the van drive off, Meira can’t help but say, “That was weird.”

“Yeah.” Sam agrees, then snorts. “So, are we talking again, now?”

Meira closes her eyes. “What do you _want_ from me, Sam?” She asks tiredly.

Sam sighs. “I don’t know.” He admits petulantly. “I just… why did you even come with me if you’re mad at me?” He asks, throwing his arms out a little to emphasise his confusion.

Meira stares at him, wondering how it’s possible to be that obtuse. But no, that’s not entirely fair, she chides herself. “Sam. I had a little brother, too.” She reminds him, and Sam’s eyes widen before his expression falls into something that’s not quite guilt, not quite annoyance, but caught somewhere between the two.

“So, you’re only here because it’s what Dean wants?” Sam asks, and Meira thinks he does actually want to know, even if it comes out sounding incredibly bitchy and mean.

“Well, yeah. I wasn’t about to just up and ditch him right after you did without making sure he was okay, first.” Meira points out, just as bitchy, and Sam winces. Meira sighs heavily and starts walking again. After a moment, Sam catches up. “Look, I do actually think you both had good points.” She says after a while, tired of the angry silence. “I think it’s a dick move for your dad to shut you out of this crusade after he dragged you into it all your childhood, and especially with what happened to your girlfriend, you have a right to be involved.”

Sam nods, the tense line of his shoulders easing. “But?” He asks wryly, almost managing a smile.

“But don’t you realise that you’re acting just like him?” Meira asks, and Sam stops dead. Meira turns back to look at him. He’s staring at her like she just up and stabbed him out of nowhere, kind of shocked and betrayed and confused.

“What?” He croaks out.

“You’re putting your vendetta above your family.” Meira points out, because that’s the simplest way she can think to put it, and maybe, if she spells it out for him, Sam might be able to catch on to all the rest without her having to explain it. After giving him a minute to find words, Meira just shrugs and continues walking. After another long minute, Sam falls into step with her in silence.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Sam says finally. “I just… I _can’t_ just tootle around working random jobs when I _know_ that that _thing_ is out there, that _Dad_ is out there, hunting it, and I’m just sitting around with my thumbs up my ass.” He vents in frustration. “I wanted Dean to come _with me_. So that we can kill this- this son of a bitch _together_.”

“Only you didn’t say that.” Meira points out. “You did, in fact, tell him that he can’t want vengeance like you do, because he only lost his mom when he was four.”

Sam flinches. And then, very quietly, he repeats “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yeah, I know.” Meira confirms tiredly. “Just like Dean didn’t actually mean to say you’re a bad person and a worse son for wanting more than the shitty hand life and John Winchester gave you.” She shrugs, and then snorts with tired humour. “You two are really, genuinely terrible at communicating with each other when it comes to how you feel, you know that?”

Sam barks out a laugh. “Yeah, we kinda are, aren’t we?” He shakes his head. “How’d you get so good at it?”

It’s a lot easier when you can see people’s souls, Meira thinks but doesn’t say. When you can see the hurt that people refuse to express, and bury under other things, you learn just how often people do it, and the wide variety of things they use to hide it. Even now, when she can’t actually see anyone’s soul anymore, Meira can still figure out that, yeah, there’s hurt there, even if she can’t see it. “My qaada taught me the importance of saying what you’re feeling in as blunt and forthright a manner as possible.” She says instead. “Which he learnt from dealing with Dad and Pabbi, who deflect like it’s an Olympic sport and expect everyone else to do the same.”

“Yeah?” Sam asks, amused and prompting.

Meira’s moment of good humour slips sideways. “I remember, even up until my brother was born, my dad was still just sort of… waiting for everyone to leave him. But he couldn’t just come out and _say_ he wanted them to stay, because that would be admitting to having a feeling.” She says it with a tone of exaggerated horror that makes Sam burst out laughing. “He was so… _stunned_ when the idea of having another kid came up. Like it hadn’t even occurred to him that it was a thing that might happen.” She shakes her head. “Which could have been avoided by _anyone_ just up and saying ‘hey, I love you, I want you to stay’. And because my dad and my pabbi are, you know, pathologically ridiculous, Qaada took it upon himself to just… _say_ it, and get it out there.”

“And taught you to do the same?” Sam wonders.

Meira shrugs and nods. “It wasn’t easy. I kind of expected everyone to be able to read my mind for the longest time. Probably because my dads were all pretty damn good at figuring me out when I barely even knew what I was feeling.” She admits, and Sam’s smile turns wistful and aching in a way that makes Meira want to smite something. “I’m still totally planning on punching your dad in the face when we catch up with him.” That, at least, takes the pained edge out of Sam’s smile.

* * *

**Cedar Rapids, Iowa – Thursday 13 th  April 2006 **

“Sorry, but the Sacramento bus doesn’t run again until tomorrow.” The lady behind the ticket desk says disinterestedly. “At… 5:05PM.”

Meira sighs, tucking her thumbs into her backpack straps and wondering if it’s conceited to hate the fact that she’s been reduced to public transport and dealing with this kind of nonsense. She’s an archangel, god damn it, and she misses being able to go wherever the hell she wants in the blink of a mortal eye. “Tomorrow?!” Sam asks, aghast. “There’s gotta be another way.”

“Well, there is.” The woman says. “Buy a car.”

Meira gives her an incredulous look. “Come on, Sam.” She says very pointedly. “There might be an earlier bus to somewhere on our way. There’s gotta be timetable around here somewhere that isn’t guarded by a classist bigot.” Sam snorts and picks up his bag, both of them ignoring the woman’s ‘excuse me!’ as they turn away. Then he sighs and pulls out his phone, staring at it with indecision written all over his face. Meira nudges him with her shoulder gently. “He’d appreciate it.” She says mildly. Sam nods distractedly, thumb hovering over the call button. Meira decides not to push any harder.

“Hey,” a familiar voice says, and Meira looks up to see the girl from the highway sitting at the base of a pillar. Her eyebrows shoot up incredulously. Once is an incident, twice is coincidence, and Meira doesn’t believe in coincidences.

“Hey.” She greets.

“What happened to your ride?” Sam asks, perhaps just a little archly.

“You were right.” The girl acknowledges without an ounce of discomfort or defensiveness. “That guy was shady. All hands.”

“No shit.” Meira says before she can help herself.

The girl huffs a self-deprecating laugh, and shrugs it off. “I cut him loose.”

Meira and the strange girl notice that Sam’s distracted at the same moment. “What’s the matter?” The girl asks.

Sam shakes his head and refocuses. “Just trying to get to California as soon as possible.”

“No way.” The girl says, hopping up from where she’s been sitting on her backpack. Meira is not even a little bit surprised when the next words out of her mouth are “Me too.” She walks over, with just a hint of strut to her stride that Meira will admit she watches with appreciation. She’s pretty sure, though, that it’s not meant for her, since the girl’s attention is still focused on Sam. “So what’s in Cali that’s so important?” She asks.

“Just something that I’ve been looking for,” Sam says, “for a long time.”

“Well, then I’m sure it can wait one more day, right?” The girl says, and then grins. Some of the agitated tension drains out of Sam, and he drops his head with a laugh. The girl’s grin becomes a smile, and she holds out her hand. “I’m Meg.”

Meira jolts. A thrill of recognition goes through her, along with a belated sort of panic. She knows that name. Not from Dad’s stories, so much, but from Qaada’s and, yeah, Uncle Sam’s. The fear is less because she knows that Meg is a demon, since in Qaada’s stories she’d been something approaching a friend, but because she _hadn’t_ known that Meg is a demon. She’s gotten so used to taking the world at face value because she always could before that she’d almost _forgotten_ what it means that she can’t see people’s souls.

“So, you do know each other?” Sam asks, and Meira abruptly realises that her reaction has been noticed. And, oh, god, Meg can probably _sense her_ , that’s why she’d been looking at her so oddly before, just like she’s frowning at her now.

“Not in person.” Meira hedges, thinking fast. “But, uh, if I’m right, my qaada knew her.” She admits, and Meg’s eyes go very wide. She recognises that word, which means Meira _is_ right, and this is the demon her qaada reminisced about. “Meg… Masters, right?” She checks, holding out her hand.

“That’s right.” The demon nods, looking wide-eyed and off-balance. “You do look like him.” She says, in a tone of realisation, reaching out and shaking Meira’s hand in a faintly awed manner, like she’s meeting a celebrity.

Meira hides the wince, because she’s pretty sure they are _not_ talking about the same person, at all. In the physical, she looks mostly like her dad, with hints of Qaada and Pabbi in expressions more than features. Her grace, though, her grace is the blinding righteous light of an archangel. Still, she’s committed to this ruse now, so she might as well play it all the way to the hilt. She thinks Pabbi would definitely approve of the imp of mischief in her soul that makes her say, “He spoke very highly of you.” Because while it’s totally true, it’s also hilariously misleading.

And Meg cinches it by actually _blushing_. Like a bashful schoolgirl getting noticed by sempai. “He did?” She asks incredulously. “I didn’t realise he was paying that much attention to little old me.”

“Oh, Qaada noticed everything. Eyes in the back of his head, I swear.” Meira says lightly.

Meg’s eyes go a little wide, and then she laughs. “Wow.” She says, shaking her head. “What are you doing here, then, if you don’t mind me asking? And who’s your friend?” She asks, tipping her head towards Sam and quirking her eyebrows curiously.

Oh, Meira has dug a hole for herself here, hasn’t she? She’s going to have to watch everything she says to make sure it matches up to both sets of lies she’s telling. Great. Well, telling most of the truth with a few creative embellishments has worked so far. “Something… someone really powerful came after me and my family.” She explains carefully. “I ran before they could get me, and Sam and his brother, Dean, were kind enough to let me tag along with them for a while.”

“Oh.” Meg says slowly, nodding. “Is… your family okay?”

Meira grimaces, and shrugs. “They’re gone.” She says, because that’s what she told Dean, and he undoubtedly filled Sam in, and it’s not as if it really matters what she tells Meg. She’s not going to believe that Lucifer has just vanished, no matter what Meira says.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Meg says, expression falling, although it doesn’t look entirely sincere to Meira. It’s a little too hard, a little too stiff to look like genuine sorrow, but it could easily be mistaken for restrained emotion.

“So, you’re a hunter, too?” Sam asks into the awkward silence that follows.

Meg blinks, her eyes flicking between Sam and Meira for a moment, before she shrugs. “Not really. I know a little bit of something, though.” She hedges, then grins wickedly. “Just enough to get myself into trouble.”

Sam snorts. “Yeah, I know how that goes.” He agrees, and then gets a bit of a sly look on his face. “Is that how you met Meira’s qaada?” He asks.

“I guess so.” Meg says, smiling at Sam’s raised eyebrows. “Come on, Sam, I’m not going to tell you all my dirty secrets just because you ask. At least buy me a beer, first.”

“Dirty secrets?” Sam echoes on a laugh, but then shakes his head and holds up his hands in surrender. “Fine, I can take a hint.” He accepts, then turns a questioning look on Meira. “Beer?” He asks, and Meira shakes her head. She’s never been a fan of beer when there are things like honey mead or fruity cocktails in the world. Sam nods once, then turns and heads off to buy Meg a beer.

The moment he’s out of sight, Meg rounds on Meira. “What the hell is going on?” She demands.

Great. Okay. Meira can totally do this. She’s not entirely sure why she’s doing this, except, well, having the demons think she’s Lucifer’s offspring is better than having them think she’s a faulty replacement who needs to die horribly for the sin of impersonating their pseudo-god. “Most of what I said was the truth.” Meira admits with a shrug.

“Your _family_?” Meg stresses.

“My human family.” Meira says, and it’s even mostly true. Even if she counts Jace as human _and_ angel, which he is, the humans still outnumber the angels almost three to one.

“And… why are you here? Should I… Am I stepping on your toes, here?” She asks cautiously.

Wow. It hadn’t occurred to Meira that she might be able to give _orders_ like this. Not that she could do anything _blatantly_ against the Grand Plan without the demons catching on, but… maybe she can mitigate some of the pain her dad and uncle are in for? Not that she has any idea what Meg’s doing here right now, but it can’t be good. But then, she kind of doesn’t want to just send Meg away, either. She was Qaada’s friend, after all, and Meira has empirical proof that demons can- Well… they can’t become human again, exactly, but they can piece together a likeness of humanity if they try hard enough. Meg must have done something like it before, to be in her qaada’s good books, and maybe… If she can save the life of her qaada’s friend, she wants to.

So instead of saying yes, Meira just shrugs again. “I don’t mind if you want to hang out.” Meira assures her, grinning a little slyly in Meg’s direction. “Just don’t blow my cover with Sam. I’m trying to get them to like me.” She adds, and Meg nods quickly, eagerly.

Then Sam comes back, with beers for himself and Meg and a coke for Meira, and they claim a table in the waiting area. It’s a little weird, watching Meg flirt with Sam, but it does make it more fun to flirt with Meg a bit herself. Meg always flirts back, half playful, half genuinely flattered, even if her attention always slides back to Sam in the end. Meira makes no special moves to discourage that, because it seems more or less harmless and she doesn’t want Meg getting suspicious already.

* * *

**Cedar Rapids, Iowa – Friday 14 th  April 2006 **

Meira catches Sam eyeing his phone again in the early hours of the morning. When he meets her gaze, uncertainty written all across his face, she just raises an eyebrow, because Sam absolutely already knows what she’s going to say. He huffs a laugh and hits the call button before he can second-guess himself again. Meira does an over-dramatic fist pump, just to make Sam laugh.

Then the phone stops ringing, and Dean’s voice says “Hey,” in a tone that’s trying very hard to be neutral, but can’t quite hide the worry underneath. “Everything okay, Sam?”

“Yeah.” Sam says quickly. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just wanted to check in. How’s the job going?” Dean launches into the story of his adventures in the orchard of doom with enthusiasm that’s got to be at least partly down to relief. “The scarecrow climbed off it’s cross?” Sam echoes incredulously as Dean gets to that part in the story. And _that_? That’s starting to sound familiar.

“Yeah, I’m telling you; Burkitsville, Indiana? Fun town.” Dean replies.

“It didn’t kill the couple, did it?” Sam asks urgently.

“No.” Dean says at once. “I can cope without you, you know.”

Sam doesn’t respond to that, just stays on the topic of the killer scarecrow. “So something must be animating it.” He muses. “A spirit.”

“Probably more like a minor god.” Meira corrects, claiming a seat beside Sam and offering to share her breakfast of vending machine chips with him.

Sam opens his mouth with a frown, only to have Dean cut him off. “Hey, is that Meira?”

“Yeah, she’s here.” Sam confirms, taking a handful of chips. “She says it sounds more like a god?” He questions, giving her another confused look.

Dean huffs a laugh. “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. The annual cycle of its killings, and the fact that the victims are always a man and a woman, like some sort of fertility rite. Spirits don’t usually go in for the ritualistic human sacrifice gig. Ask the walking encyclopedia if she’s got any ideas on specifics.”

Sam lowers the phone a little. “Any idea on specifics?” He echoes.

“It’s not likely to be Native, since they’re usually not keen on worship from the white man, so figure out where the people who live there came from, and you’ll have a better idea of which god it is.” Meira says at once.

“Jeez, do I gotta do all the work myself?” Dean says sarcastically, and Sam laughs.

Then his face falls and settles into lines of determination. “Look, Dean, I…” He pauses, glances at Meira, then sighs heavily. “I’m sorry.” He blurts out. “For just ditching you like that, and, you know, the stuff I said. I didn’t mean how it came out.”

Dean clears his throat. “Yeah, me too.” He says roughly. Meira can’t help but beam at Sam, relief and a strange sort of pride makes keeping the smile off her face impossible. Sam quirks a smile in return, bashful and just as relieved. “Sam.” Dean says, recapturing his brother’s attention. “You were right; you gotta do your own thing.”

“You serious?” Sam asks.

“You’ve always known what you want, and you go after it.” Dean explains, halting but not at all unsure. “You stand up to Dad.” He adds, with that little not-a-laugh that Meira’s learning to hate so much. “You always have. Hell, I wish I- Anyway. I admire that about you.” Dean admits, turning Sam’s stunned look into something softer. “I’m proud of you, Sammy.”

Sam mouths helplessly for a moment, eyes going a little bit shiny with emotion. Meira’s probably grinning like a moron, but she can’t help it. It’s just so _nice_ to see her family coming back together again after the last couple of days. “Thanks, Dean.” Sam says finally, ducking his head.

“You just take care of yourself, okay?” Dean prompts.

“Yeah, I will. You too.” Sam replies at once.

“And call me when you find Dad.”

“Of course.” Sam says, and then clears his throat. His farewell comes out soft and uncertain, and then the dial tone fills the phone. He pulls it away from his ear, flips it shut, which Meira still finds ridiculously quaint, and then stares at it with indecision warring across his face.

He’s distracted all day, and gets his phone out regularly to stare at it. By mid-afternoon, he’s upgraded to actually calling Dean. When Dean doesn’t pick up, Sam looks over at Meira and she knows they’re both very much on the same page here. “Screw it.” Sam says, and Meira grins, copying him as he starts gathering up his bags.

“Sam?” Meg asks, surprised. “What are you doing? Our bus doesn’t get in for another couple of hours.”

“My brother’s not answering his phone.” Sam tells her shortly.

“Maybe it’s turned off?” Meg suggests.

Sam shakes his head. “No, it’s not like him. Especially-” He pauses, then shrugs a little. “especially not on a job. I think he might be in trouble.”

Meg looks confused, and a little frustrated about that. “I thought you were like me.” She says finally. “I thought you wanted your freedom, but you’re just going to go running back because your brother doesn’t pick up the phone _once_?”

Sam shrugs. “He’s my family, Meg. Whether I needed some space or not, I can’t just leave him in danger like this.”

Meg shakes her head. “But that’s his choice. You’re not responsible for his choices.”

Sam glances over at Meira with a self-deprecating smile. “But I am responsible for mine.” He counters. Meg looks over at Meira too, clearly searching for assistance, but Meira’s not going to carry her ruse that far.

“Sam knows what I think about his family.” Meira says to Meg, unrepentant.

Sam snorts. “Yeah, you’re not very good at keeping your opinions to yourself.” He agrees.

Meira isn’t very repentant about that, either. “What can I say? I call ‘em as I see ‘em.”

Meg presses her lips together, doing a very good impression of pained. “I guess this is goodbye, then.” She says sadly.

“Yeah.” Sam sighs. “Good luck in Cali, Meg.” He adds, sincerely, and then turns to go. Meira hesitates for a beat, but when Meg looks at her, her expression somewhere between uncertain and frustrated, she decides fuck it, and reaches out to pull the demon into a hug. She sucks in a startled breath at the contact, but tentatively hugs her back.

When she draws back, Meira offers her a wink. “Be good.” She says, in a tone that makes it sound like she’s making a joke, even though she kind of isn’t.

Meg laughs. “Never.” She retorts playfully.

Grinning, Meira jogs after Sam. She catches up with him outside the bus station, walking determinedly down the sidewalk, away from the busier streets, scanning the road as he goes. “So, how are we getting back to Burkitsville?” Meira asks curiously. “Because I’m thinking hitchhiking is going to take way too long.”

Sam nods distractedly. “Yeah. I’m thinking maybe the lady at the counter had a point.” He muses, before jogging over to a plain dark car with a parking ticket tucked under the wipers. “We should get ourselves a car.” Sam says solemnly, and promptly jimmies the lock.

* * *

**Burkitsville, Indiana – Friday 14 th  April 2006 **

They leave their stolen car a little way outside of Burkitsville, and hike the rest of the way into the orchard directly. No need to give the villagers a chance to accost them before they even get to have a look around. Dusk is falling, so it’s not the best time of day for snooping, but Meira figures a god’s effigy of a scarecrow is going to stand out a bit, so she’s not too worried.

“-moving yet?”

“I can’t see.” Sam and Meira exchange looks, then head in the direction of the voices with matching relieved grins. “Oh my god.” A young, feminine voice says in mounting panic.

“Don’t panic!” Meira calls out cheerfully. “We’re here to rescue you!” She trills, and Sam snorts.

“I take back everything I said, I’m so happy to see you.” Dean announces with very audible relief. Sam heads straight for his brother, which Meira is not complaining about, because that means she gets to rescue the cute girl. “How’d you get here?” She hears Dean ask as she gets started on the girl’s bindings.

“I, uh… I stole a car.” Sam admits.

Dean laughs. “That’s my boy!”

The girl looks a little alarmed by this, so Meira offers her a reassuring smile. “Hey, what’s your name?” She asks.

“Emily.” The girl replies.

“Nice to meet you, Emily. I’m Meira.”

“Keep an eye on that scarecrow.” Dean reminds them, and Meira looks up, feeling dumb for not remembering that herself, but a look around tells her that it’s too late anyway. She can’t see a scarecrow anywhere.

“Too late.” Meira says, bright with false cheer. She undoes the last knot undone in something of a hurry, and jumps to her feet, holding out a hand to Emily. She takes it, and Meira pulls her to her feet, putting a little bit extra strength into it, so that Emily stumbles into her arms.

“Sorry.” Emily murmurs, regaining her feet.

“Absolutely no problem at all.” Meira assures her, making her blush.

Dean snorts a weary laugh. “Jesus, you don’t ever stop, do you?”

“She really doesn’t. Not even when the girl in question has a crush on her _dad_.” Sam informs Dean as he finally gets his brother loose, too. Dean makes an interrogative noise, but Sam shakes his head. “Tell you later. What’s the plan?”

“Get the hell out of here?” Dean suggests, in a very clear ‘are you stupid’ tone. Sam gives him a bitch-face, and they all start running. Of course it can’t be that simple, however, and before they reach the edge of the orchard, they find themselves surrounded by the rest of the villagers.

“Yikes.” Meira breathes, staring around. “You guys aren’t doing the mob thing right. You’re supposed to have torches and pitchforks.” She points out.

“Shut up.” One of the men snaps at her.

“Please.” Emily says breathlessly. “Let us go.”

“It’ll be over quickly.” Another man says. “I promise.” Emily reiterates her plea. “Emily, you have to let him take you.” The man insists, and Meira really, really wishes she could use her grace right now. There’s something about the way he’s trying to coerce a willing sacrifice out of Emily that’s even more obscene than simply sacrificing her outright would have been.

Thankfully, his next words get cut off by the fertility god sticking a sickle through his chest. He and his wife, Meira is guessing the screaming lady is his wife, get dragged off into the orchard while everyone else scatters. “Come on!” Dean barks, hustling them all out of there as well.

* * *

**Scottsburg, Indiana – Saturday 15 th  April 2006 **

They return to the orchard the next day, unimpeded by the townspeople, and set fire to the oldest tree. It has a name carved into it, but it’s so old, and the bark so rough that Meira can’t make it out. She thinks that’s kind of sad, even if the guy had been killing people. Emily clearly doesn’t think so, because she sets fire to the tree with a distinct vindictive satisfaction. Meira can’t say she blames her.

Then they give Emily a lift to the nearest city and the bus station there. “You going to be okay?” Meira checks just before she’s due to get on the bus to Boston. Emily nods determinedly. “Good. So, before you go, mind if I get your number?” She asks brightly.

“I guess I should have seen that coming.” Emily says ruefully.

Meira shrugs. “I promise to only use it for strictly business purposes unless otherwise invited.” She offers with a smile.

“Business purposes?” Emily challenges.

“If you see anything else that’s, you know, not quite right, you can call in an expert. Or if I know about something headed your way, I can shoot you a warning.” Meira explains. She jerks her thumb over her shoulder at Sam and Dean. “These two are kind of terrible at keeping track of the people they know who might be able to give them a heads up about interesting goings on, frankly, so I have to pick up their slack.” She explains.

“Hey!” Dean protests.

Emily laughs, and they exchange numbers. Then she glances over her shoulder at the bus. “I gotta go.” She says. “Thanks for the rescue.” She adds with a grin.

Meira holds out a hand, and when Emily goes to shake it, instead lifts it to her lips, bowing over it. “It was my honour, fair maiden.” Emily swats at her in reprimand, but she’s grinning, so Meira doesn’t take it too seriously.

“Seriously, though, take care of yourself.” Dean adds.

Emily’s grin softens into a smile, and she nods. “I will.” Then she turns and gets on the bus.

They stand there, watching her bus until it’s out of sight, and then amble back to the Impala. “So, am I dropping you off somewhere?” Dean asks, faux-casual.

“No, I think you’re stuck with me.” Sam replies, and Meira slows her walk even further to give the pair of them at least the illusion of privacy for the following heart-to-heart.

Of course Dean has to ruin the moment with his allergy to feelings. So Meira rolls her eyes and pounces on him, getting her arms around his shoulders from behind like she would have when she was younger and wanted a piggyback. “Group hug!” She calls.

“What? Hey, no! Get off me!” Dean protests. Laughing, Sam slings his arms around both of them and squeezes, making Dean stagger sideways. “Sammy, you _traitor_!” Dean growls.

“It’s _Sam_.” Sam retorts, squeezing even tighter in in punishment.

Then Dean elbows Meira, kicks out Sam’s knee, and escapes. “I don’t know either of you!” He declares fiercely over their laughter, yanking the door of the Impala open and practically throwing himself inside. Still grinning, Sam and Meira follow suit.


	11. Put the Stars to Shame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Chapter title paraphrased from a quote I found, apparently from a poem by Nikita Gill: "I want our daughters to be born with so much fire in their souls they could put volcanoes and stars to shame.")

**Plainview, Texas – Thursday 20 th  April 2006 **

The shack is so run down it looks like a stiff breeze ought to knock it right over and the inside is worse. There’s debris everywhere, and the basement stairs are cramped and rickety. Meira’s half convinced the boards are going to give out under their feet. Dean is in the lead, and Meira is bringing up the rear, at least until they get off the stairs and fan out, scanning every inch of the basement that they can for the rawhead.

There’s a rattle, a thud, and Meira spins towards the sound, Sam and Dean doing the same on either side of her. Warily, they edge in, until Dean’s close enough to grab the doors and yank them open. Instead of a rawhead’s roar, however, they hear a high-pitched scream, as Meira and Sam’s torchlight reveals two terrified children. Meira takes half a second to let herself be relieved that they got here in time, and that the kids are still alive.

“Is it still here?” Sam asks quietly.

“Okay.” Dean says briskly. “Grab your sister’s hand, come on, we’re gonna get you outta here.” He instructs, and the kids obey, shaky and frightened, but trusting. Meira turns her back, going back to scanning the basement to make sure the way to the stairs is clear. Sam passes her with a nod, taking up a station at the bottom of the stairs, and covering Meira’s back so that she can lead the way up the stairs, just in case the rawhead is being unusually tricky, and lying in wait above them.

Once she’s at the top of the stairs, she looks back as Dean says “Alright, go!” and Sam starts up the stairs after the kids.

Meira catches the girl’s outstretched hand and smiles reassuringly. “I’ve got you.”

Sam goes down, so suddenly that Meira has no idea what just happened. “Sam!” Dean yells, and then dives around the side of the stairs. Open slats, Meira realises, and quickly pulls the kids the rest of the way up onto the landing, just in case.

She meets Sam’s gaze, and he nods. “Go!” He snaps out. Meira tosses him her taser. She won’t need it, since the rawhead is most definitely in the basement. Sam catches it, and Meira hustles the kids out of the creepy rundown shack. She gets them into the Impala’s back seat, and then crouches down by the open door, offering them another reassuring smile as they huddle together.

“You’re gonna be okay now.” She assures them. “Sam and Dean? They’re really good at killing monsters, and they’re going to kill that son of a bitch deader than dead.”

The girl cracks a slightly shaky grin. “You’re not supposed to say words like that around Kai.”

Meira winks at her. “It’ll be our secret. Besides, after a day like today, I think you guys should be allowed to say all the bad words you-”

“DEAN!”

Meira whips around so fast she nearly falls over, her heart thundering into double-time at the sheer alarm in Sam’s shout. She rises to her feet and takes one step before she even remembers the kids. She shouldn’t leave them, out here in the dark where a monster’s already tried to eat them once before, but- She looks back at the shack again, hands shaking. No, she tells herself firmly. Whatever happens, it’ll be survivable. She knows this, for a fact. Unless she changed something by being here.

No, she tells herself again, gripping the top of the Impala’s door so hard her knuckles turn white and she has to consciously reel her grace out of her muscles or risk damaging the car. If Dean were dead or dying, she would know about it. She’s pretty sure. She’s human enough that if her existence were erased, by, say, her dad dying before she could be born, she would have to know.

Then Sam appears in the doorway, carrying Dad in a bridal carry that Dad would absolutely protest, no matter how injured he was, if he was awake enough to do so. “Kids.” Meira says, and she’s surprised when her voice doesn’t shake. “Can you move into the front passenger seat for me?”

The kids scramble to do so. The movement catches Uncle Sam’s attention, and a brief moment of gratitude lights his eyes before it’s gone again, overwhelmed by quiet, practical terror. Meira scrambles into the back seat, and then turns to help Uncle Sam slide Dad in. She sits right next to the door with Dad’s head and shoulders in her lap and gets her fingers on his pulse. It’s thready and weak in a way that’s genuinely terrifying, but Meira holds stubbornly on to hope. She’d know. If he was dying, she’d know.

Uncle Sam flings himself into the driver’s seat and floors the gas. “What happened?” The boy asks, peering over the back of the front seat at Dean with wide, worried eyes.

Meira meets Uncle Sam’s eyes in the rear view mirror, letting him see the question echoed in her eyes. It’s only for a second, though, and then Uncle Sam’s eyes are back on the road. “There was water on the floor.” He grits out between clenched teeth, and Meira fights down more panic.

Instinctively, she tries to heal him, her grace reaching out to help before she can remember why that’s a terrible idea. The pain rips through her, unforgiving, and she curls down over Dad, teeth clenched against a scream, but she barely even pays it any mind. In the fraction of a second before her grace was forced away, she thought she felt… something. Not enough, not _nearly_ enough to be sure, except for the fact that she would know her dad’s soul _anywhere_.

* * *

**Plainview, Texas – Friday 21 st  April 2006 **

Meira used to like hospitals. It always confuses her friends when she tells them, the ones who really know her, anyway, because they always expect that someone who can basically see people’s emotions would hate hospitals for all the pain and grief they hold. But to Meira, they’re one of the most common places that humanity _shines_. Tiny little human souls blazing _mighty_ against the darkness, fighting for life and love every god damned hard won inch of the way.

Now, though, she’s realising why so many people hate them. Sitting there in the too bright, too clean hallway waiting for someone to tell her whether her dad is _dying_ or not is probably the most miserable experience of her life. She could very easily learn to hate hospitals if this were her prevalent experience of them.

She wishes her family were there, her _real_ family. If she has to go through this, she should have Qaada and Pabbi on either side, Jace under one arm, her Uncle Sam holding Aunt Mia nearby, her cousins hanging about or clinging to their parents hands. She’d give a lot for just one of them. For Qaada, especially. He always seems to know exactly what to say in moments like this.

Sam is talking to the police when the doctor comes to speak to them, so Meira reaches him first, but only by a couple of seconds. “How is he?” Meira asks, sharp and demanding.

The doctor, to his credit, doesn’t take offence at her tone. “He’s resting.” He tells her calmly.

“And?” Sam presses.

“The electrocution triggered a heart attack.” The doctor explains. “A severe one. I’m afraid his heart is damaged.”

“Damaged?” Meira echoes.

“How damaged?” Sam demands.

“We’ve done all we can.” The doctor says, and Meira’s knees threaten to give out on her. She grabs hold of Sam’s arm, as if he’s any steadier than she is, and he grabs her right back, fingers bruising-tight around her forearm. “We can try to keep him comfortable, but at this point I’d give him a couple of weeks at most. Maybe a month.”

Meira stares, unable to think past the simple denial. No, no, she _knows_ that’s not true. She knows it. If her dad were going to die in the next couple of weeks, she wouldn’t _be here_ , right? She _couldn’t_ be here. Because there’s a difference between dying and never having existed at all. The latter is a lot more final than the former. She still exists, so she must have existed, which means her dad _can’t be dying_.

“No. No, there’s- there’s gotta be something you can do, some kind of treatment.” Sam insists.

“We can’t work miracles.” The doctor says apologetically.

Meira used to be able to work miracles. “Can we see him?” She blurts out, because maybe- maybe if she just _tries_ hard enough, if she can just _make it work_ , then maybe she can fix this.

“Of course.” The doctor says, and Meira practically bolts. Sam’s right at her side all the way through the door into Dad’s hospital room. Meira nearly chokes when she sees him, too pale against the stark white hospital sheets, so stupidly, humanly fragile.

“Hell, you two look like crap.” Dad tells her.

Meira tries to laugh, and it comes out more like a sob. She crosses to stand beside the bed, then fumbles for a chair and sits down heavily, because this is going to hurt like a son of a bitch, and her knees feel weak enough as it is. She grabs for his hand, throat going tight at the pulse monitor attached to his finger, but holds on anyway, pressing her forehead against his knuckles, and _reaching_.

The pain is as brutal as ever, but Meira grits her teeth and focuses, ignores it, trying to sense what she sensed before. And it’s there, the righteous light of her dad’s soul, just as strong as ever, but still beyond her reach. Every damn time she tries to touch, to heal, she’s rebuffed, and the pain spikes deeper. She can’t keep it up for more than a couple of seconds, and she sucks in a shuddery breath as she lets it go and stops pushing at the boundaries of her skin.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be such a girl.” Dad protests, squeezing her hand.

“I am a girl, you colossal fucktrumpet.” Meira retorts wetly.

Dad laughs, then stops with a small groan. “Oh, man, I’m gonna have to remember that one.”

“Dean.” Uncle Sam says, half chiding, half pleading, from right behind Meira, and it’s only then that she even notices the hand on her shoulder.

“Alright.” Dad sighs. “Well, looks like you two are gonna leave town without me.”

Meira snorts. “Stow your crap, D-Dean.” She chides, only just barely remembering to correct herself.

“What she said.” Uncle Sam agrees. “We’re not going to leave you here.”

Dad rolls his eyes at them. “Hey, you better take care of that car.” He instructs Uncle Sam, as if he hadn’t even heard them. Meira wants to shake him, except for how she really, really doesn’t. “Or I swear I’ll haunt your ass.” Meira laughs through another sob.

“I don’t think that’s funny.” Uncle Sam says.

“Meira laughed.” Dad retorts. “So obviously the problem is your non-existent sense of humour.” Uncle Sam shifts, hand clenching on Meira’s shoulder. She glances at him, and sees his expression twisting up like he’s about to cry. “Look, Sammy, what can I say, man? It’s a dangerous gig.” Dad says, relenting. “I drew the short straw. That’s it. End of story.”

No. No, no, no, and _nope_.

“Don’t talk like that, alright?” Uncle Sam says out loud, so at least Meira doesn’t have to articulate the absolute wall of denial she felt in response to her dad’s _stupid_ statement. “We still have options.”

Meira forces herself to breathe, to _think_ , because Uncle Sam is right, and, god, if there’s anything that’s worth calling on Pabbi, this would be it, right? Maybe, if she can get the supplies quickly enough, she could summon _Loki_ , and maybe that wouldn’t blow his cover, but she’s not above praying to him, either. She doesn’t want to trade one dad for another, but she can’t not even try.

“What options?” Dad scoffs. “Burial or cremation?” Meira flinches. Dad squeezes her hand in something that might be an apology. Meira presses her forehead to his knuckles again and _tries_. It hurts, and she doesn’t get any closer to actually reaching his soul. When she finally gives up after several seconds too long, she shudders and sobs, still wracked with aftershocks. “I know it’s not easy, but I’m gonna die.” Dad says bluntly. “And you can’t stop it.”

Meira almost wants to laugh again, because, really, what better way to guarantee the impossible will happen than to tell a Winchester it can’t be done. Sure enough. Uncle Sam lives up to the family name, and doesn’t disappoint her in the slightest. “Watch me.”

* * *

**Plainview, Texas – Monday 24 th  April 2006 **

Meira is standing in the shower, because she can’t clean herself with grace anymore, and she really, really hates the feeling of being grubby. When she’d announced her intention, Sam had given her a baffled look, like he couldn’t even begin to comprehend the idea of doing anything that wasn’t the search for something to heal Dean.

But then, Meira has the added benefit of a trump card she’s been holding in reserve. It’s kind of the nuclear option, but it’s still an option, and she’ll use it if she has to. The problem is, she doesn’t know if she has to. If she should. _Granddad? I don’t know what to do,_ she thinks, bracing one arm against the shower wall and bowing her head under the spray. _Is this my fault? Or is it just something Dad never talked about? I keep thinking maybe I should just call Pabbi now, but… maybe there’s something else, something that won’t reveal him to the Host and get him hunted down or whatever._

Shaking her head, she shoves wet strands of brown-blonde hair turned dark brown by the water out of her face and reaches for the shampoo. _I’m so scared right now, Granddad, I don’t… I have no idea what’s happening or what I should do. I just… If I knew, whether I’d caused this or not, I could… I could figure out what to do, but… if I’m wrong… If I didn’t cause this, but I call Pabbi anyway, I’m putting him in the crosshairs for no good reason, but if I did, and I don’t… Dad might die before I can get Pabbi here, because you know he’s going to take some convincing to answer me. What if Dad doesn’t have that time?_

Sam knocks on the door, and Meira jumps, nearly falls, and manages to catch herself on the wall before she goes over. “Meira, hurry up in there, I think I’ve got something.” Sam calls.

“Coming!” Meira calls back, before she huffs in dark amusement and quickly sets about rinsing soap suds out of her hair. _Message received, Granddad_.

When Meira gets out of the bathroom in a Y-backed tank-top and sweat pants, still towelling her hair dry, Sam is sitting on his bed, phone to his ear. He glances up when Meira appears, offers her a tight smile, but then keeps talking. “-I don’t know if you even got my other messages, but I swear, I’m, uh, I’m gonna do whatever it takes to get him better. Just thought you ought to know where to find us.” Sam ends the call and tosses the phone down.

“Leaving another message for your dad?” Meira asks, because that expression of desperate fury couldn’t really mean anything else.

“Yeah.” Sam bites out. “Though, don’t know what I expected, really.”

“Another set of coordinates?” Meira snarks, and Sam laughs, sharp and hysterical. Meira drops down to sit on the other bed, the one that isn’t filled with research papers, because what she needs is already in the post. “So-” She begins, only to be cut off by a knock on the door. They both stare at in suspicious alarm, before Sam gets up and goes to open it.

It’s Dean.

“What the hell are you doing here?!” Sam asks, caught somewhere between delight and horror. Meira’s already on her feet and hurrying over, towel forgotten.

“Checked myself out.” Dean tells them, leaning on the doorframe as he hobbles his way inside.

“Are you crazy?” Sam blurts out.

“Well, I’m not gonna die in a hospital where the nurses aren’t even hot.” Dean says blithely. Meira snorts, grabbing hold of his free hand, just to feel the reassuring warmth of him. And maybe to try healing him again. Just like every other time, she gets close enough to feel him, feel the power of his soul thrumming away beneath his skin, but like always, there’s a wall of spikes between her and everything else that she just can’t cross.

“Come sit down, for god’s sake.” Meira says thickly, ignoring the aftershocks. Sam immediately shuts the door and leaps forward to help, and Dean doesn’t even protest as they support him over to what has been, for the last few nights, Meira’s bed. “And you don’t get to call him crazy, Sam.” Meira adds. “We were probably going to have to go get him out ourselves if you’ve really got something.”

Dean looks between them as he gingerly lowers himself down to sit. “Got something?” He asks dubiously. Then he looks down at where Meira’s once again clutching his hand in both of hers, sitting beside him on the bed to maintain that contact. “And what’s with the hand-holding?” He mocks pointedly.

Meira rolls her eyes at him, and just tightens her grip. “I could hug you, instead.” She points out.

Dean pulls a face at her. Meira pulls one right back. “Alright, children.” Sam interrupts, fragile amusement in his tone as he sits down on the bed opposite. “So, I’ve been calling up every contact in Dad’s journal.” He begins.

“For what?” Dean asks, squinting at him.

Sam gives him a disbelieving look. “For a way to help you.” He says, as if it should be obvious, which it really, really should. Meira’s dad is an idiot. She has a sudden premonition of how this conversation is going to go, with her dad arguing every step of the way, and rolls her eyes.

“Hey, do you know how to French braid?” She asks Dean abruptly. Her dad does, but she doesn’t know if that’s a skill he learnt because he had a daughter, or if it was one he already possessed.

Dean turns to stare at her in complete bewilderment. “Uh, yeah.” He says slowly. “Why?”

Meira abandons his hand to slide down to sit on the floor and lean back against his shins. “Braid my hair.” She demands, like a brat. Usually, this was a ritual that belonged to her and Qaada, but every now and then Dad could be convinced to do her hair instead, and right now, she could use the comfort of the familiar. “I’m getting the feeling this conversation’s going to last a while, so might as well get something useful done in the meantime. Also,” she adds when Dean doesn’t move, “this way you get to avoid more girly hand-holding.”

“Because doing your hair is so much _less_ girly.” Dean grouses, but his fingers, a little shaky, do start combing through her hair, pulling it back from her face.

“Dude, how do you even know _how_ if it’s that girly?” Sam challenges, amused.

“I had a girlfriend who always wore her hair like that.” Dean tells him, and Meira can just _hear_ the lascivious grin in his words. “Said if I was going to mess it up, I ought to know how to put it back again after.” Sam snorts, and Meira grins. Then Dean clears his throat awkwardly. “Dunno how good it’s gonna look.” He warns her. “Bit out of practice.” And his hands are shaking, and he’s very weak, and he tires quickly, he doesn’t say. Meira hears it anyway.

She leans the side of her head momentarily against his knee. “S’cool.” She can’t exactly tell him that it’ll be a Dad-braid so it’ll be awesome no matter what, so instead, she says “Honestly? You could give me ridiculous bunny-ear buns right now, and I’d wear ‘em with pride.”

“Watch out, I just might.” Dean snorts. And then he gives a very put-upon sigh. “Alright, then, what did you find, Sammy?”

Sam doesn’t even protest the nickname. “One of Dad’s friends, Joshua, he called me back fifteen minutes ago. Told me about a guy in Nebraska, a specialist.”

“You’re not going to let me die in peace, are you?” Dean asks wearily. Then he nudges Meira with his knee. “Lean forwards.” He instructs, and Meira does so, bowing her head so that he can work on the rest of her hair.

“I’m not gonna let you die, period.” Sam retorts. “We’re going.”

“To Nebraska?” Meira checks. Sam nods, and Meira sighs. “I’m gonna have to bribe the clerk here to send on my packages. Any idea where, exactly, we’ll be staying?” She asks Sam, not really holding out hope for a definitive answer.

“Packages?” Dean asks warily, before Sam can answer.

Meira grimaces, and Sam looks sympathetic. They both know Dean isn’t going to like to hear what, exactly, she ordered off the internet. “Dried mistletoe, obsidian, snakeskin, sea salt, ivory knife.” Meira lists off. Dean’s hands still on her hair.

“That sounds like ritual rubbish.” Dean says warningly.

“Yup.” Meira confirms.

“To summon… what, exactly?”

“A god.”

“A-” Dean cuts himself off with a growl. “You are _not_ summoning a god to save my sorry ass.” He orders, hands starting to move again.

“Well, not if Sam’s specialist works out.” Meira agrees placidly. And not if she can heal him herself. She tries again, but through the barrier of his jeans, she can’t even feel a hint of his soul beyond her binding. Then Dean yanks on her hair in retribution for her sass, and distracts her from her failed attempt. “Ow.” She whines, even though Dean hadn’t actually hurt her all that much, since the braid is almost done already.

“Don’t you dare, you hear me?” Dean demands.

Meira sighs, feeling a touch of guilt squirm to life in her gut. “Look, Dean…” She stops, thinking about how to explain what she needs to. “I get why you don’t like the idea, but would you really choose to die if I found someone who could heal you, if I could get them to agree to it without strings attached?” She asked seriously.

Dean doesn’t answer her right away. “Hair tie?” He asks instead, holding out a trembling hand over her shoulder. Meira snaps the band off her wrist and sets it on his fingers, waiting to make sure he’s got a grip on it before she lets go. “Obviously I don’t wanna fucking die.” Dean says finally. “But that sort of thing is _never_ without strings attached, and you don’t mess around with gods, for fuck’s sake. You just don’t.”

Meira doesn’t argue further, because that’s close enough to permission that she’ll take it. Besides, she can’t help but hope that, with whatever Sam’s found, she’s not going to need to push her luck.

* * *

**Ford City, Nebraska – Tuesday 25 th  April 2006 **

Meira is not going to _admit it_ , but she’s just about as impressed with what Sam’s found as Dean is. _A faith healer_. What a crock of shit. God doesn’t intervene like this, and the angels don’t fucking care. What the hell is this guy going to do, exactly? She tries to reel her disappointment back in as they walk towards the tent. Some people do have the ability to heal, certain types of psychic that can reach the body through the soul, and if they grow up religious, they might think the gift comes from God, instead of their own heart and soul.

“But if you know evil’s out there, how can you not believe good’s out there too?” Sam asks, stopping by the entrance to the tent to turn and face Dean.

“Because I’ve seen what evil does to good people.” Dean retorts.

“Maybe God works in mysterious ways.” A new voice interjects, and Meira turns to see a pretty blonde woman pausing beside them with a warm, gently amused smile.

“Maybe he does.” Dean says. “I think you just turned me around on the subject.”

Just about everyone laughs at that, including the woman. “Yeah, I’m sure.” She agrees, clearly not believing him for a second, but her tone is still warm and amused. Dean introduces them, holding a hand out to her, and she shakes it. “Layla.” She replies. “So, if you’re not a believer, then why are you here?” She asks with surprisingly little judgement, just open curiosity. Meira kind of wishes she could see her soul right now, because she’s getting the feeling it must be beautiful.

“Well, apparently, my brother here believes enough for the both of us.” Dean explains. Layla nods her understanding, but before the conversation can progress, she’s called away by an older woman, into the tent for the service. “I bet she can work in some mysterious ways.” Dean comments, watching her go.

“Are you about to try and convince us of the healing powers of sex?” Meira asks him, amused, as they continue inside.

“Hey, I’m not the one who used an aphrodisiac to banish a demon.” Dean retorts, grinning. Meira shrugs, because, yeah, she’s guilty of that one. Then Dean’s eyes narrow. “What, not going to poach this one, too?” He asks petulantly.

“Nah, I’ll let you have this one.” Meira tells him lightly. “As incentive to live.”

Dean snorts, even as Sam flinches. “How is it you can act even more broken up about this than Sammy, and yet you’ve still got more of a sense of humour about it than he has?” He wonders, aiming for a seat in the back row.

“I have faith.” Meira replies with a shrug.

“In _this_?” Dean asks incredulously.

Sam grabs his shoulders and urges him on before Meira can find an answer. “What are you doing? We’ll sit here.” Dean protests.

“We’re sitting up front.” Sam corrects him.

“What, why?” Dean demands, and then groans out “Oh, come on, Sam,” when Sam refuses to yield, and drags him up to the front.

Meira sits down beside Dean, grabbing hold of his hand again and making him roll his eyes. He doesn’t make her let go, though, so she doesn’t mind. She leans against his shoulder and answers his question in an undertone. “I have faith in you.” She corrects, earning a sceptical look from Dean. “And in myself. And in Sam. In our ability to beat the odds with a stick and steal their pocket change.” Dean laughs loudly, only to get shushed as the man up on the stage starts to speak.

The longer he goes on, the more Meira is torn between wanting to scoff, and being half convinced that maybe this man is a genuine psychic healer. “It is the Lord,” Le Grange says, “that does the healing here, friends,” and Meira wants to scoff. God doesn’t intervene. He nudges, sometimes, suggests things in the way of impulses and intuition, and little tweaks to circumstances just because he’s got a stupid sense of humour, which is what Meira suspects happened to her that made her so… not what what she should have been, but he doesn’t directly intervene. That would contradict free will, and that is a gift inviolable.

But then Le Grange says “the Lord, who guides me in choosing who to heal, by helping me see into people’s hearts,” and Meira thinks that that sounds like the religious translation of what it means to be a healing psychic.

“Yeah, and into their wallets.” Dean mutters.

“You think so, young man?” Le Grange asks, turning his face towards Dean.

Dean shifts uncomfortably when he realises he’s been singled out. “Sorry.” He says, not entirely sincerely.

“No, no, don’t be.” Le Grange replies. “Just watch what you say around a blind man, we got real sharp ears.” Everyone laughs, and even Meira has to bite back a hint of a smile. “What’s your name, son?” Le Grange asks.

Dean clears his throat. “Dean.”

“And the- the young lady next to you?” Le Grange asks.

Dean’s eyebrows go up. “Meira.” He answers for her.

“Meira. God’s light.” Le Grange remarks. “How appropriate.” Oh, yeah, this guy is definitely psychic. Meira’s lips quirk towards a smile. “Well, Dean, I want you to come up here with me.” Le Grange decides, beckoning him. Everyone applauds.

“Nah. Nah, it’s okay.” Dean tries to say.

“What are you doing?!” Sam hisses.

“You- You’ve come here to be healed, haven’t you?” Le Grange asks.

Meira gets out of her seat so that Dean can get to the aisle, but Dean doesn’t move. “Well, yeah, but, uh…” More applause that doesn’t do anything to discourage Dean from being a self-sacrificial moron. “Maybe you should just pick someone else.”

“Oh. No.” Le Grange says, shaking his head. “I- I didn’t- I didn’t pick you, Dean, the Lord did.”

Or at least, an angel or two will, Meira thinks with humour, and then she nudges Dean in the shoulder. “Stop being a party-pooper, Dean.” She chides lightly.

“Get up there!” Sam encourages, and Dean gets up, walking up onto the stage like it’s a gallows, not a preacher’s podium. Meira sits back down, and watches curiously, wondering if this is actually, truly, going to work. Healing psychics are rare as diamonds in a pig trough, so she doesn’t want to dare to hope that Le Grange might be the real deal, but… Well, when she’d asked Granddad for an answer, this was the one Sam had brought her, so maybe, just _maybe_ , this will work.

“You ready?” Le Grange asks once Dean’s standing beside him.

“Look, no disrespect, but, uh, I’m not exactly a believer.”

“You will be, son. You will be.” Le Grange says, and Meira rolls her eyes. She’d almost forgotten how much she hates preachers. As if God cares whether you believe in him or not. “Pray with me, friends!” Le Grange calls, and everyone raises their hands into the air.

 _Hey, Granddad, make someone sneeze twice if you’ve got anything to do with this._ Meira thinks humorously, and of course, nothing happens. _That’s what I thought_. Meira agrees. Then Dean falls, slowly, to his knees, and her humour dies in a powerful wave of worry and hope.

“Alright now.” Le Grange says, and then Dean drops.

“Dean!” Sam and Meira cry out at the same time, bolting out of their seats and up onto the stage. Meira gets there first, by virtue of having been sitting closer to the aisle, but Sam all but shoves her out of the way, and she doesn’t protest, just shuffles to the side and gets her fingers on Dean’s pulse in his wrist. It’s steady and strong, and she lets out a sob of relief before she can choke it back. “Say something!” Sam demands, shaking Dean as he stares off into the middle distance. Meira glances over her shoulder, but she doesn’t see anything other than Le Grange.

* * *

**Ford City, Nebraska – Wednesday 26 th  April 2006 **

Sam makes Dean an emergency appointment to have his heart checked out. Dean goes along with it, resentful but willing, and strangely subdued. It’s enough to get Meira worrying again.

“At least the doctor here is hot.” Meira points out when they’ve been left alone to wait for the results. Dean manages a distracted snort, but there’s no accompanying leer. Meira doesn’t think he even bothered to check her out.

“So you really feel okay?” Sam checks, possibly catching on to the same anomaly as Meira.

“I feel fine, Sam.” Dean assures him.

The doctor returns mere minutes later. “Well, according to all of your tests, there’s nothing wrong with your heart.” She tells him bluntly. “No sign there ever was. Not that a man your age should be having heart trouble, but…” She trails off, then shrugs. “Still, it’s strange, it does happen.”

“What do you mean, strange?” Dean asks.

“Well, just yesterday a young guy like you, twenty-seven, athletic; out of nowhere, a heart-attack.” The doctor explains, and Meira gets a very bad feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“Thanks, Doc.” Dean says, and the doctor brushes that off with a smile as she leaves. Dean gives his brother a pointed look. “That’s odd.”

“Maybe it’s a coincidence.” Sam says quickly.

“There’s no such thing as coincidences.” Meira counters grimly, crossing her arms uncomfortably. Dean points at her while raising his eyebrows at his brother to emphasise her point.

Sam gives her a bitch-face. “People’s hearts give out all the time.” He insists.

“No, they don’t.” Dean counters.

“Look, do we really have to look this one in the mouth?” Sam asks. “Why can’t we just be thankful that the guy saved your life, and move on?”

“Because I can’t shake this feeling, that’s why!” Dean snaps, standing up. He turns away, grabbing his jacket and pulling it back on. “When I was healed, I just- I felt _wrong_. I felt cold, and for a second, I saw someone, this, uh, this old man, and I’m telling you, Sam, it was a spirit.”

“But if there was something there, Dean, I think I would have seen it too.” Sam protests.

“Not necessarily.” Meira contradicts. Sam whirls on her, looking betrayed. “Some things can appear only to those they wish to. Some only appear to specific people.”

“But if it was going to appear to anyone, wouldn’t it have been me? I mean, I’ve been seeing an awful lot of things lately.” Sam protests, and Meira rolls her eyes. “What?” Sam demands, offended.

“Psychics are usually specific.” Meira tells him. “That’s why you have so many different names for the same thing. Psychic, medium, ESP, clairvoyance, sixth sense. Just because you see some things doesn’t guarantee that you’ll see everything.” She explains, and then shakes her head. “Besides, if _anyone_ was going to see something, it would’ve been Dean. He was the one who was party to whatever was happening in that tent.”

“Healing.” Sam insists. “Healing was what was happening.”

“Healing should _never_ feel wrong, Sam.” Meira bursts out, throwing her arms in the air. “ _Painful_ , sure, sometimes it can be that, depending on how it’s done, but _wrong_? Healing, by it’s very definition, is the act of putting things _right_.”

Sam still looks torn, like he can’t figure out how to argue, but he doesn’t want to accept that this was anything more than what it looks like. “Sam, I’ve been hunting long enough to trust a feeling like this.” Dean presses.

“Yeah, alright.” Sam capitulates. “So what do you want to do?”

“Why don’t you two go check out the heart attack guy? I’m gonna visit the Reverend.” Dean announces, and heads for the door.

“Mind if I tag along with you?” Meira asks, hurrying after him.

Dean gives her a suspicious look. “Why?”

“I have some questions for Le Grange myself.” Meira tells him. Dean shrugs, in a way that Meira thinks means maybe he’d rather she didn’t, but he doesn’t say as much, so she blithely ignores it. They head over to the Le Grange house, and Meira does her best to fade into the background while Dean asks his questions.

Once he’s done, and possibly trying not to think too hard about what Le Grange said about why he chose to heal Dean of all people, Dean turns to Meira with a raised eyebrow. “You’ve been suspiciously quiet over there. Thought you said you had questions, too.”

Meira smiles sunnily at him. “I didn’t want to distract you. After all, you’re the one who needs closure, I’m just curious.” Dean does a passable imitation of Sam’s best bitch-face. “I just wondered…” Meira begins, switching her gaze to Le Grange and leaning forward in her seat. “What does it feel like, to heal people like that?”

Le Grange shakes his head slowly, not a negation, but uncertainty. “I don’t think I have the words. It’s- it’s not really a thing _I_ feel. I can- I suppose I can feel it _happen_ , in the one I’m healing, but I’m just a conduit for God’s blessing.”

“And this sense you have, of people’s hearts, did that come along with the miracles, or have you always been able to do that?” Meira asks. Dean looks between her and Le Grange, eyes narrowing a little as he picks up on the nature of Meira’s questions.

Le Grange smiles a little. “I’ve always thought of myself as a- a perceptive person, when it comes to other people.” He says, nodding slowly. “But- But it was only after I lost my sight that- that it became more than that. Why do you ask?”

Meira shrugs and leans back again. “Just curious. You’re not the first person to look me and say my name suits me.”

Le Grange hums and nods his understanding. “I’ve- I’ve never met someone so- so bright.” He pauses to consider. “The two of you are very alike, in some ways, aren’t you? Both of you have a path laid out before you, a god-given purpose.”

“No offence to your faith, preacher, but God didn’t give me my purpose.” Meira says. “God gave me options, and the freedom choose my own path. My purpose is my own, and he can keep his greedy mitts off it.”

“Amen.” Dean chimes in, toasting with his glass of iced tea, so that he can then hide his smirk behind it as he pretends to take a sip. Sue-Ann looks like she’s bitten down on a lemon, but Le Grange huffs an amused, almost indulgent laugh. They exchange a few more pleasantries before leaving. “So, what do you think?” Dean asks as they head back down the porch stairs.

“I think he’s always been a psychic, but the miracles… Whatever’s going on here, I don’t think he’s the one doing it.” She glances sideways at Dean. “I think he was the first ‘victim’.”

“The cancer.” Dean agrees.

Meira’s about to say more, but before she can, they run into Layla coming towards the house. “Dean, hey.” She greets with a smile, and then turns that smile on Meira. And wow, she’s kind of regretting what she said to Dean last time. “And Meira.”

“Hey.” Dean greets, while Meira just nods.

Layla focuses on Dean. “How’re you feeling?” She asks.

“I feel good.” Dean confirms, then glances over his shoulder at the house. “Cured, I guess. What’re you doing here?”

Layla takes a deep breath, like she has to brace herself to answer. “You know, my mom.” She says, and even though her tone is light, Meira isn’t sure she buys it. “She wanted to talk to the Reverend.”

Not that Layla’s mother gets further than the front step, getting very efficiently stone-walled by Sue-Ann. So she rounds on Dean. “Why are you still even here? You got what you wanted.” She accuses, and Meira bristles.

“Mom!” Layla chides. “Stop.”

“No, Layla. This is too much.” Her mother replies. “We’ve been to every single service. If Roy would stop choosing these strangers over you. Strangers who don’t even believe. I just can’t pray any harder.”

“God doesn’t care if you believe in him or not.” Meira says, unable to quite bite the words back. Layla and her mother both turn to her, startled. “And suffering isn’t some sort of punishment he metes out for doubt or sin. God loves you, but he won’t throw a miracle at you just to prove it.”

“Easy for you to say.” Layla’s mother snaps. “You’ve already got your miracle.”

Meira huffs a laugh that’s only half amused. Dean steps forward, just enough to make a partial barrier between the two of them. “Layla, what’s wrong?” He asks.

Layla doesn’t answer for a moment, looking so terribly sad for a moment that Meira wants to kick herself for taking her mother’s vitriol at face value. She’s clearly hurting, and just getting into a fight isn’t going to help anything. Then Layla pulls up a smile, and Meira feels even more like an asshole. “I have this thing.” She says vaguely.

“It’s a brain tumour.” Her mother interjects, voice gone distant as though that’s the only way she can talk about it. “It’s inoperable. Six months, the doctors say-” Layla puts her hand on her mother’s shoulder, and the woman cuts herself off sharply. The silence that follows is agonising, grief sitting heavy and choking in the air around mother and daughter.

“I’m sorry.” Dean says.

“It’s okay.” Layla assures him, mustering a smile.

Meira clears her throat. “I’m sorry, too.” She adds. “As in, both that you have my sympathies, and you have my apologies for being an asshole. I reacted to the implication that Dean isn’t worthy of being saved. I never meant to imply that you don’t deserve to be saved, too.”

While her mother looks away sharply, pained resentment in every line of her face, Layla just shakes her head, smile wobbling a little. “I forgive you.” She says, and Meira smiles in gratitude. “You must love him a great deal.” Layla adds, eyes flicking over to Dean, before returning to Meira curiously.

“Oh, no, we’re not-!” Dean says at once, gesturing vaguely between himself and Meira.

Meira cackles. “I do.” She says to Layla, ignoring Dean’s spluttering. Layla is clearly amused as well. “But frankly, I find you _far_ more attractive than him.” She goes on, making Layla chuckle, flattered and amused, and Dean groan in annoyance. Meira remembers her promise not to poach, and adds; “He thinks you’re hot, too.”

“ _Jesus Christ_.” Dean hisses, while Layla bursts out laughing.

“I had figured that much out by myself.” Layla tells Meira between giggles.

“Right, we’re leaving now.” Dean declares, blushing under his freckles. “Can’t take you _anywhere_.” He complains, as he grabs Meira by the plait he put in her hair, and tugs her away. Meira goes with it, waving cheerfully back at Layla, who waves back, giggling. “What the _hell_ , Meira?” Dean continues to complain once they’re back at the car, and he has to let her go if he wants her to be able to get in the car.

“It made her laugh, didn’t it?” Meira asks, rounding to the passenger door.

Dean sighs, all the embarrassed annoyance draining out of him as he glances back towards the house. “Yeah, I guess it did.” He agrees. “Damn it.” He curses, bitterness twisting his expression.

Meira’s heart squeezes. “You do deserve to be saved, Dean.” She tells him, before she can stop herself. She knows that just saying it probably won’t help, but she wishes she could make him believe it, that she could show him just how much he means, and will mean, to her and the rest of their family.

Dean scoffs, not convinced at all, but then he looks over at her, and for a moment, he looks less self-recriminating, and more just plain bewildered. Like she’s the one that doesn’t make any sense at all. “Yeah, well, so does she.” Dean counters, which at least isn’t a denial.

Meira’s answering smile is rueful and grim. “Yeah. Yeah, she does.”

Dean thumps a fist onto the roof of the Impala, not hard, but with emphasis. “But if whatever this is is _killing people_ …” He stresses, but doesn’t manage to finish the sentence. He just looks pained and frustrated and angry.

“If you asked her if she’d be willing to trade someone else’s life for her own, do you think she’d say yes?” Meira asks him.

“Not a chance.” Dean says at once.

“Then we stop this, before it can abuse her consent.” Meira states simply.

Dean looks up at her, his smile turning just as grim as hers. “That’s a nice way of putting it.” He says darkly, and then gets into the car. Meira follows suit.

“Just like sex, healing should never be done without consent, either.” Meira says as Dean brings the engine to life. Dean snorts. “Which, by the way, I kind of owe you an apology, too.” She adds, reluctant, but knowing she needs to say it. Dean raises his eyebrows in question, communicating his confusion with nothing more than that and a flick of a glance in her direction. “For trying to heal you without your consent.” Meira explains. “For pushing you into this. It was… it was selfish.”

Dean shakes his head. “Man, don’t be so dramatic. It was my own stupid choice to walk up there like a moron.” He pauses for long enough that Meira thinks that’s all there is, but once they leave the muddy track up to the Le Granges’ and get back onto proper roads, Dean speaks again. “And, you know, I’m not… Well, I am fucking pissed someone else got killed so I could live, that’s fucked up, but I’m- Thank you. For trying. Is what I’m saying.”

“That’s what family does.” Meira says simply, and Dean nods once, putting a distinct ‘closed’ sign on the subject. They head back to their motel rooms, and join Sam in the one he’s sharing with Dean. There, Sam confirms the hypothesis that the guy who died of a heart attack was related to Dean’s healing, adding six more victims to the tally this thing, whatever it is, has going.

“Le Grange is trading a life for another.” Sam concludes, voice heavy.

“If it’s Le Grange.” Dean says, half to himself as he looks through Sam’s research.

“What?” Sam asks, bewildered.

“Le Grange had cancer.” Meira tells him. “That’s why he’s blind. Had a miraculous recovery, and _then_ discovered his ability to heal people.”

“Maybe he healed himself.” Sam suggests.

“He was in a _coma_.” Dean counters, and Sam grimaces.

“But then… Who’s doing it?”

“Not who, Sam, _what_.” Dean corrects, shaking his head and getting up to pace. “The old man I saw on stage.” He reminds them. “I didn’t want to believe, but deep down, I knew it.”

“Knew what? What are you talking about?”

“There’s only one thing that can give and take life like that.” Dean announces, which is so blatantly untrue that Meira genuinely has no idea what he’s going to say next. “We’re dealing with a reaper.” He announces.

Oh, Meira thinks, and then feels kind of stupid. Because, yeah, that would fit everything that’s been going on, in a way that things like angels, or gods, or even witchcraft wouldn’t. “A reaper wouldn’t behave like this on their own, though.” She points out. “They’re agents of Death, and Death doesn’t pick and choose this way.”

“I thought the Grim Reaper _was_ Death.” Sam says, looking at her.

“ _The_ Grim Reaper, sure.” Meira confirms. “They’ve got a lot of different names in a lot of different cultures, like Azreal, Thanatos, Mot, Ankou, Nga, Mara. All the same being. But they also have minions. Little baby reapers that do all the heavy lifting, like the elves in Santa’s workshop.” Sam huffs a disbelieving laugh. “But this one really shouldn’t be _trading_ life like this, that’s not what they _do_.”

“So… we’re back to who’s making it do this.” Sam prompts helplessly.

They ponder in silence for a moment, until Dean looks up with narrowed eyes. “What about Sue-Ann?” He asks slowly. When he sees that he’s got Sam and Meira’s attention, he shrugs. “If it’s not Le Grange, maybe it’s his wife. Think about it, if Le Grange really was the first, she has motive out the wazoo, wanting to save her husband, and then, hey, she’s got a reaper on a leash, why not use it?”

“I knew I didn’t like her.” Meira declares.

“So now we need to figure out _how_ she’s controlling the thing.” Dean agrees, looking at Meira expectantly.

Meria shrugs. “Well, I don’t know.” She says defensively.

“You seem to know everything else.” Dean points out, amused more than accusatory.

“I read a lot!” Meira protests. “That doesn’t mean I know everything. And, frankly, ‘how to tame reapers’ is not something _anyone_ ought to know. It’s the stupidest form of suicide I’ve ever heard of.” She grumbles to herself, thinking of how Death would react to something like this. She shudders.

“That cross.” Sam says, distracting Meira and Dean from their conversation. They both make curious noises. “There was this cross, I noticed it in the church tent, I knew I’d seen it before…” Sam dives for his bag and pulls out a pack of tarot cards. Then he shows them the Death card, which does, at least on this set, have the strange cross that had been in the Le Grange’s church on it, held in Death’s hand. “Here.”

“Tarot?” Dean questions.

“It makes sense.” Sam returns. A short, and somewhat biased, lecture on the origins of the art, they come to the conclusion that the most likely explanation is black magic. Which, well, duh. Meira doesn’t say that, though, because they have, at least, identified the focus of the spell Sue-Ann is using.

“Okay, then we need to stop her.” Dean declares.

“How?” Sam asks.

Meira opens her mouth to make the obvious suggestion, but Dean beats her to the punch. “You know how.” He says grimly.

“Wait, what the hell are you talking about, Dean?” Sam asks. “We can’t _kill_ Sue-Ann.”

Meira blinks. That was _not_ what she’d been thinking at all, although she supposes it would be somewhat more merciful to do it themselves than to let the reaper have at her. “Sam, she’s playing God, deciding who lives and who dies, that’s a monster in my book.”

“No, we’re not going to kill a human being, Dean.” Sam protests, and Meira suddenly feels shaky. “We do that, we’re no better than she is.”

Meira shoves away from the table, unable to stay sitting for a second longer listening to that. “That’s _bullshit_.” She spits, pacing away from them, and then turning back angrily. Sam looks startled, but Dean’s eyes have narrowed, and Meira swallows down her nausea. “Killing someone to _stop them killing people_ does not make you the same as someone who’s _trading other people’s lives_ like currency, who’s _enslaving_ a sentient creature and forcing it to kill for her.”

Sam spreads his hands. “Maybe she doesn’t know. Maybe she just thinks she’s healing people, and she doesn’t realise she’s killing people.” Dean snorts.

Meira wants to snarl, wants to ask how many contortions he’ll go through to justify a _human’s_ actions, when the simple need to survive isn’t good enough for anyone else, but she reels it back in. She doesn’t… she really doesn’t want to have to have this fight, not with them. Not with the two people who have been the entire _foundation_ of her security against everyone that wanted to kill her just for being what she is, angel, demon, and human alike.

She can’t do it. She’s going to throw up if she has to try and argue this against her _dad_ and her uncle Sam. She scrubs a hand over her face, then back over her hair, which is still up in its braid, and tries to get a hold of herself. “Look, why can’t we just… break whatever spell she’s using?” Sam asks, tone infuriatingly reasonable.

Meira gives him a deeply unimpressed look, and then decides not to point out that if they do that, Sue-Ann’s as dead as if they’d put a bullet in her brain themselves, and shrugs. “Sure, let’s try that.” She agrees, flippant and disgusted, and throws herself back into her seat.

Dean catches her eye across the table, and there’s a knowing glint in his eye that makes Meira’s stomach turn over in terror. But then he just snorts, shakes his head, and looks back to Sam. “Best chance of snooping is going to be during a service, right?”

* * *

**Ford City, Nebraska – Thursday 27 th  April 2006 **

Meira hasn’t spoken to Sam since yesterday, and she’s still not sure she can look at him without feeling ill right now, so she sticks to Dean’s side when they split up outside the tent, only to have Dean give her a look that very clearly asks what she’s doing there. “Dude, Sam needs your help more than I do. Two pairs of eyes are better than one. Go.” He orders.

“I’m still mad at him.” Meira grumbles as she turns to go.

Dean snorts again. “Yeah, but Sue-Ann’s going to die either way, right?” He asks, and when Meira turns to stare at him, he shrugs. “You called it suicide. I heard you, even if Sam was too distracted to pay attention. That’s why you agreed so easily.”

“It’s not that I necessarily want Sue-Ann to die.” Meira protests quietly, although, if the woman does know what she’s doing, then yeah, she kind of does. “If there was a way to stop her? To guarantee she wouldn’t just cast the spell again once we’re gone? Sure, I’d be on board with that.” She shakes her head and looks away. “Sam not wanting to kill her isn’t what bothers me. It’s _why_ he doesn’t want to kill her that bothers me.” She huffs a dark laugh. “It’s that question of who deserves to live, again, I guess. Are- are humans just more deserving, by default? What about a human rapist? Do they deserve to live more than a skinwalker just for the fact they’re human?”

“Dude, don’t ask me, I’m just here to kill monsters.” Dean groans. Meira bits back the urge to demand how he defines a monster. She _does not want to know_ if her dad would class her as a monster, a thing to be killed just for existing. “Sam’s the one who’s got a degree in that philosophy crap, and you can argue with him all you want _after_ we stop Sue-Ann. Until then, we’ve got people to save, so suck it up and do the job, okay?”

“Yeah.” Meira says on a sigh, and turns away to trudge after Sam. He glances at her when she catches up with him, but she ignores him as best she can, and they break into the house with silence lying thick between them.

They’re searching the bookshelves when Sam asks, very quietly. “I’m getting the silent treatment for not wanting _kill_ someone?” He asks incredulously.

Meira glances over, but Sam’s not looking at her. “No.” She bites out, only just barely remembering that they’re in the middle of committing a crime and shouldn’t go around shouting and drawing attention to themselves. “You’re getting the silent treatment for implying that humans are more deserving of life than any other creature.”

“I didn’t-!” Sam protests.

“Yes, you did.” Meira snaps back, and then takes a breath. “Now’s not the time for this. Let’s just find the stupid spellbook.” Sam huffs, but they go back to searching in silence. Sam eventually finds the stupid spellbook, and then finds newspaper clippings about the victims inside. “Oh, look.” Meira can’t help but comment snidely as she takes in the content of those articles. “More prejudice.” Sam flinches, and Meira _refuses_ to feel guilty about what she just implied. Sam won’t look at her as he rings Dean to warn him who the next victim is going to be.

Sam goes rushing off to find the protester, but Meira doesn’t go with him. If she could use her grace, she might be able to do something, but as it is, she can’t even see the reaper, she’s not going to be able to stop it, and neither is Sam. Instead, she heads to the tent. Once inside, she spots Dean talking to Layla and edges through the handful of people standing around the edges of the tent to get closer.

“-can’t let Roy heal you.” Dean is saying.

“I don’t understand.” Layla replies. “I mean, Roy healed you, didn’t he? Why won’t you at least let him try?”

Dean looks away, struggling for words, and catches Meira’s eye. He turns back to Layla. “Would you be willing to trade someone else’s life for yours?” He asks, and Layla sucks in a sharp breath. “I wouldn’t, but I didn’t get a choice. I only found out afterwards that some poor schmuck dropped dead of a heart attack that should’ve been mine.”

Layla stares up at him with wide eyes, horrified and scared and not sure she wants to believe him. Then, behind her, Sue-Ann calls her name, and she looks around, staring at the stage. When she turns to look at Dean again, Meira sees tears tracking down her cheeks. “No.” She whispers. “No, I wouldn’t.” Her expression twists, and she blinks rapidly, sending more tears onto her cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Layla.” Dean says, pained and sincere.

Layla wipes at her cheeks. “I don’t want to believe you.” She admits, shaking her head. She takes one more look at the stage, and Dean opens his mouth to say more, but then Layla turns and all but runs out of the tent. Her mother calls after her, but she doesn’t stop, just vanishes outside.

“What in God’s name did you say to that poor girl?!” Sue-Ann demands loudly, and an angry murmur ripples through the congregation.

Dean grits his teeth and glares at Sue-Ann. “Just God’s honest truth.” He says, with an edge of vicious mockery, then turns and leaves, shouldering past Layla’s mother when she tries to stop him, demanding to know what’s wrong with him. She follows on his heels, but Meira doesn’t go. She’s watching Sue-Ann, heading back up onto the stage and talking quietly with her husband. He nods slowly, then addresses the congregation, saying something about everyone being ready to accept the Lord’s blessings in their own time, and then calling a different name.

Meira grits her teeth and looks around. If just getting the victim out of the way won’t stop them, she has to find a way to stop the entire fucking service. Well, she thinks, with a touch of mischief that, yeah, is possibly bordering on malice, there is one sure way to get everyone out of the tent. “Fire!” She calls out, putting a touch of alarm into her voice, and everyone’s immediately on alert. “There’s a fire! Everyone get out!”

The congregation surges, everyone heading for the exit with Le Grange trying to keep some semblance of order along the way. Meira lets herself be carried by the current, but then she glances back towards the stage and her gaze catches on Sue-Ann. Her eyes widen as she registers the hard, ugly look on the woman’s face as she turns away, towards the back of the tent, but it’s not beyond belief that the woman is petty enough to kill another one of her ‘undeserving’, with or without someone to save in the process.

Wrath surges, and Meira finds herself, yet again, wishing desperately that her grace were unbound. How she would _love_ to turn Sue-Ann’s sanctimonious faith around on her. And then she realises the tent is empty apart from a few stragglers that are almost gone anyway, and she thinks, why the fuck not?

She shucks off her coat, dropping it over the back of an empty chair, and strides towards Sue-Ann. “How _dare you?_ ” She demands, pouring all her fury at the petty bigotry she’s seen in this woman into her voice, along with just a touch of grace, to make it resonate. It burns as it leaves her lips, but it’s so worth it. Sue-Ann whirls, her eyes wide, and then they narrow. She opens her mouth to retort, but chokes on her breath as Meira unfurls her wings, letting them spread, arched and wide in clear aggression. Sue-Ann’s face drains of all colour, and she drops to her knees, releasing her hold on the pendant at her neck to cross herself.

Meira’s grace _burns_ inside her, sending little sparks of pain skittering along her nerves as she restrains the urge to try and smite the bitch who is still, even _now_ , clinging to her poisoned faith as if that might save her. “You have trespassed upon the domain of the Lord.” Meira begins, because if she’s going to play a part, might as well do it to the hilt. Sue-Ann gasps, shaking her head in frantic denial, hands coming up as Meira closes the distance between them, though whether to fend her off or to entreat forgiveness, Meira neither knows nor cares. “You have taken His name in vain to justify your hatred and your cruelty.”

“No!” Sue-Ann blurts out, whispered but fervent.

“You _deny it_?!” Meira demands, furious.

“I wanted to _help people_ , heal them!” Sue-Ann pleads. “These good people are suffering, they don’t deserve to die, not when there are- are murderers and- and sodomites who deserve to-”

“ _That_ ,” Meira snarls, and Sue-Ann flinches backwards, cowering under the shadow of Meira’s wings, “is not for you to decide!” She’s aware she’s maybe being a little bit of a hypocrite, but then again, she knows the difference between defending yourself and yours from harm and going looking for victims that offend your sensibilities. “Thou shalt not kill, thus commanded your Lord.” She reminds her, and is faintly impressed when Sue-Ann manages to pale further, going almost grey in her horror.

“I- I’m-” Sue-Ann swallows. “I’m sorry. Oh, God, I’m _sorry_.”

Meira glares at her, feeling a twinge of pity. “Fear of judgement is not true repentance.” She states, and Sue-Ann sobs, screwing her eyes shut. “Do not hide from this.” Meira commands with another tiny touch of grace, and Sue-Ann’s eyes fly open again at once. “You have bound to your hand power that is not yours by right, to spill the blood of innocents upon this earth.” Meira gives a significant look at the cross hanging around Sue-Ann’s neck, the one that looks just like the one on Sam’s tarot card, and her hands fly to it, but don’t actually touch it.

Wordlessly, Meira holds out her hand. Sue-Ann just stares for a moment too long, and Meira raises her eyebrows at her, expression hardening. Hastily, with fingers trembling almost too hard to get a proper grip, Sue-Ann tugs the pendant off and drops it into Meira’s waiting palm. Nodding, Meira uses her grace to give herself the strength to crush it in her fist, glass shattering and metal warping. She heals the wounds as they appear, and then drops the mangled, bloody remains to the floor. The blood is not hers, she healed too quickly for there to be that much, so that must have been the focus, Meira realises. Sue-Ann’s eyes follow it to the ground. “Your hands are stained. Your soul is tainted. This, you cannot undo.” Meira informs her, and Sue-Ann’s eyes snap back to her, a muted sob escaping her throat between shaky gasps for air.

Sighing, Meira drops to one knee to look Sue-Ann in the eye, and Sue-Ann stares back, startled and trembling. “Repentance comes from understanding. So I charge you thus, Sue-Ann Le Grange; learn the truth of what you have done, the evil you have enacted, and repent. Do it not in the name of obedience, or fear, or selfishness, but in the name of love, for yourself and for your neighbour.” Meira sighs again, and gentles her tone, although she just can’t bring herself to go so far as to actually make any gesture or sign of forgiveness. It’s not hers to give. “For you are _all_ beloved in the eyes of God, even the worst of you.”

Then she stands, turns, and walks out, catching her coat back up on her way, tucking her wings away and swinging it on as she steps outside. Idly, she wishes she could have made a more impressive showing, flared her grace for a lightshow, maybe even incinerated that cross. Sue-Ann had been suitably impressed, which was good enough, but still, Meira’s flair for dramatics mourns all the opportunities she missed because she couldn’t use her grace to it’s full effect.

There are still people lingering outside, uncertain what’s going on, so Meira has a bit of a crowd to push through to find Sam and Dean. She spots them leaning on the Impala, standing with the protester, who looks shaken and confused. “Hey.” She greets once she’s within earshot, then focuses on the protester. “You okay?” She checks, and he nods quickly, still looking shaken. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” Meira realises, holding out a hand.

“David.” The man replies, shaking it.

“Is Layla…?” Meira asks, looking to Dean.

His lips thin. “She went home after I told her to look into people who died at the same time as the-” He gestures with a sneer towards the tent, and Meira nods.

Before they can say anything else, though, Sue-Ann comes stumbling out of the tent, making something of a scene with how hard she’s crying. “Roy?!” She calls, desperate and frantic. Roy steps away from the security guards he was talking to, free hand coming up to reach out for his wife, and she falls into his arms, apologising over and over again.

“Jesus.” Sam swears under his breath, and then both he and Dean turn to Meira. “What the hell did you _do_ to her?” Sam asks incredulously.

Meira grins, smugly satisfied, and shrugs with false nonchalance. “I guess you could say I put the fear of God into her.” Neither Sam or Dean look like that’s a satisfactory answer, but Sue-Ann distracts them from questioning her further by promptly collapsing, convulsing several times, before falling still. “And now the reaper can deliver her to where she belongs.” Meira concludes. She’s not sure if she’s pleased about that or not. On the one hand, she kind of deserved it, but on the other, now there’s no more chance for her to improve herself.

“You broke the spell?” Dean checks.

Meira nods. “She had a pendant that was working as the focus of the spell. I got it off her and smashed it.” She explains, and Dean nods. Sam looks between them, then over at Sue-Ann, eyes widening in realisation.

“Alright, let’s get out of here.” Dean declares, heading for the driver’s door.

“Hang on.” Meira says, and exchanges numbers with David, getting a surprisingly emphatic thank you when she tells him to call if he ever notices anything else like the reaper. “Okay, now we can go.” She tells Dean.

“Let me tell you, I can’t _wait_ to get out of this town.” Dean announces once they’re in the car and pulling out of the Le Grange’s muddy driveway.

“Oh, come on, no!” Meira whines, slumping dramatically over in the back seat.

“What? Why not?!” Dean demands indignantly.

“The motel in Plainview called this morning.” Meira explains. “My package arrived and they sent it on. It’ll be here day after tomorrow. Can’t we stay until then?”

It takes a moment for Dean to answer. “Why the hell do you need it?” He asks, sounding very suspicious.

“I suppose I don’t.” Meira acknowledges. “But I paid for that stuff with my own hard-earned money.” Sam snorts, and Meira sticks her tongue out at him. “Hey, picking pockets _is_ hard work.” She defends, then sighs. “Point is, I paid for it, might as well keep the stuff, you know, just in case.”

“Just in case you need to summon a _god_?” Dean asks, unimpressed.

Meira rolls her eyes. “That, or in case we come across something that needs an ivory knife to kill it. I don’t have one of those yet, and you have no idea how hard it was to find. Everyone wanted to sell me ivory- _handled_ knives, instead. Cheapskates.”

“Dude, your knife collection is already taking up _more_ than its fair share of trunk-space.” Dean warns her, but then he groans in resigned disgust before Meira can defend her collection. “Fine, we’ll stay a couple more days.”

* * *

**Ford City, Nebraska – Saturday 29 th  April 2006 **

There’s a knock on the motel room door, and Meira looks up from where she’s sprawled out over the end of Sam’s bed, playing with her new knife. “I’ve got it.” Sam says, getting up from where he’s been half-heartedly looking for jobs on his laptop to open the door. “Hey, Layla. Come on in.”

Meira’s head snaps around to see that, yes, Layla is standing in the doorway. She greets Sam softly, and then steps past him. “How’d you know we were here?” Dean asks, bewildered. It’s a good question, but Meira has her suspicions. Sam sounded far too unsurprised to see her.

Sure enough, Layla says “Sam called,” while Sam tries not to grin too smugly behind her. He catches Meira’s eye, and tips his head significantly towards the door. Meira sighs, much beleaguered, but rolls to her feet and puts her knife away carefully. “He said you were leaving today, and that you wanted to say goodbye.” Layla’s smile turns just a bit knowing, but then it fades into something pained. “And I… I wanted to say thank you.”

“Thank you?” Dean echoes incredulously. “For what?”

Meira pauses on her way to the door, because she’d rather like an answer to that question, too. Layla glances at her, then looks back to Dean. “I looked into what you told me about.” She says solemnly. “It would have been… awful, to learn what it cost too late, to have to live with that.” She reaches out and puts a hand on Dean’s arm. “I’m so sorry, Dean.”

Dean blinks rapidly, then swallows, and nods. “I’m sorry, too, Layla. I’m so damn sorry.” He says thickly, and Meira vacates the room at a rapid clip, giving the two of them some privacy. As she closes the door behind her, she takes a deep breath, wondering. She’s been thinking a lot, lately, about her grace and the limits imposed upon it by the binding, about healing and how she can’t heal anything besides herself, and yet how she could _almost_ touch her dad’s soul. She’s wondering if maybe there’s a way…

She goes with Sam to the vending machine at the end of the hall, and they sit against the wall together in silence. Meira is so caught up in her own thoughts, trying to pull her ideas apart, that she jumps when Sam speaks. “You knew the reaper was going to kill Sue-Ann if we broke the spell.”

Meira looks at him, then sighs. “She violated the natural order, and Death is not merciful.” She says simply.

Sam huffs. “Do you think she deserved to die?”

Meira thinks back to Sue-Ann’s terror in that tent, to her frantic apologies when the reaper was coming after her, and she thinks back to all the people who died who could have lived, and all the people who lived who should’ve died. “Many who live deserve death. And some that die deserve life.” She quotes, because the question that follows has been on her mind.

“Gandalf.” Sam recognises, looking droll. “That quote’s meant to be about mercy, and sparing your enemies.” He points out, and Meira nods. “You were all for killing her before.” Sam reminds her, and though he says it like a statement, it’s clearly a question.

Meira shrugs. “Bigotry pisses me off.” She says, and Sam looks away with a grimace. “But I didn’t _want_ to kill her. I wouldn’t have lost sleep over killing her, but in an ideal world? I wanted her to recognise what she was doing, not just that the people she killed weren’t a threat, but also the… the _violation_ she was committing upon the people she claimed to care about. Now she never will, and that’s fucking tragic.” Meira takes a sip of her coke and then thunks her head back against the wall. “No one _deserves_ what they get, Sam. It’s not about _deserving_.”

Sam is quiet for a moment, contemplating his own bottle of soda, turning it between his fingers while his elbows are braced on his knees. “Then… how do you draw the line?”

“You ask yourself two questions.” Meira says simply, and Sam looks over at her, startled. She realises he didn’t actually expect her to have an answer, and smiles wryly at him. “You ask ‘Are they hurting anyone?’ and if the answer is no, you mind your own fucking business. If the answer is yes, then you ask ‘Can I stop them without killing them?’ and if the answer is yes, then you do that, instead.”

Sam nods. “And if the answer is no, _then_ you kill them.”

“Short of divine intervention, I don’t think there was anything we could have said or done to stop Sue-Ann. She was… convinced of her own righteousness in a way that was self-affirming.” Meira explains and Sam nods again, taking a sip of his soda and staring off down the hallway without seeing it. Meira lets him have his silence until the door of Sam and Dean’s motel room opens, and Layla steps out. She smiles over her shoulder briefly, then shuts the door, and in the moment that she thinks she’s unobserved, Layla’s expression falls into tired sorrow.

There’s no way Meira can just sit here and refuse to so much as _try_.

Meira gets to her feet, and Layla spots the movement and turns towards her. Another smile blossoms across her face. “Meira. Sam.” Layla greets, walking towards them. Sam gets up, too. “I’m glad I met you.” She says sincerely by way of a goodbye.

“You too.” Sam agrees.

“You mind if I walk with you back to your car?” Meira asks, instead of offering her own pseudo-farewell. Layla’s eyebrows rise a little, but then she nods an acceptance. Meira ignores Sam’s raised eyebrows and falls into step with her as they head out of the motel.

“What is it?” Layla asks as they amble across the parking lot.

Meira takes a deep breath. “I have something I want to ask you, but I’m not exactly sure how to lead up to it.” She admits, shoving her hands into her pockets. Layla glances over at her, brows lightly furrowed. Meira struggles, but can’t quite find the right words. Layla gives her time, even though it’s clear she’s very confused. They reach Layla’s car, and Meira grimaces. She hasn’t thought this one through. It’s not as though she’s going to do this in the middle of a parking lot. She looks around, and spots a park on the other side of the road. It’s not very well maintained, but there are trees enough that there are sure to be a few spots that are shielded from casual observation. “Can we…” Meira begins, and nods towards the park. “Take a stroll?”

“…Sure.” Layla says slowly, looking genuinely concerned now as they turn towards the road and start walking again. “What do you want to ask?” She finally prompts once they’re across the road and stepping onto grass.

“If I said I might be able to heal you, would you let me try?” Meira asks, because that’s the sum of what she wants to know. It’s too blunt, but she can’t think of how to ease into it.

Layla’s expression falls. “If this is some sort of test…” She begins tiredly.

“No.” Meira says quickly, shaking her head, and then smiling ruefully. “I might be able to heal you, but I don’t know if I can. I- I tried _so_ hard to heal Dean, and it didn’t work, but I’ve been thinking about it since he got better, thinking about all the different ways that sort of thing can work, and… I think I’ve figured out what I was missing.”

Layla sucks in a shaky breath, and stares out across the park as they walk around a large, gnarly tree. “I think I’d need to ask; what’s the catch?” She says finally, turning to look at Meira. The expression on her face is painful to look at, so tired and yet, still, with that spark of painful, recently-betrayed hope dancing somewhere behind her eyes.

It’s not quite the question Meira was expecting. “I’d need access to your soul.” She says, and manages a smile at the way Layla’s eyebrows fly upwards.

“That’s it?” She asks cautiously.

Meira laughs a little. “That’s a _lot_ of trust to ask you to give someone who’s basically a stranger.” She points out.

Layla pauses and turns to consider her, and Meira stops too. A glance around shows that they’re alone, and that they’re not within view of the street. “Why shouldn’t I trust you? You’ve already proved you’re the sort of person who saves lives.”

“A lot of nasty people end up in jobs that save lives.” Meira counters.

Layla laughs softly. “Sometimes you just have to have a little faith in people.” She counters.

Meira swallows, feeling oddly humbled by that. “There’s another catch.” She adds, trying for a light, if wry, tone, and falling a little short. Layla tips her head a little to show she’s listening. “In order to reach your soul, I think I’m going to need to kiss you.”

 _That_ throws Layla, where even the offer of miraculous healing didn’t. She opens her mouth, pauses, and then gives Meira a look that’s torn between an attempt at teasing, and something that looks like genuine disappointment. “If this is just a ploy to steal a kiss…” She says, lightly chiding.

Fair enough, Meira thinks ruefully, even as she shakes her head. “No. I wouldn’t do that.”

Layla takes a moment just to breathe, but then nods her acceptance and steps a little closer to Meira, moving just into her personal space. “Alright.” She says quietly, and then smiles again at Meira’s obvious surprise. “What have I got to lose?” She asks with a small shrug. “If it works, I’m healed. If it doesn’t, I still get to kiss a beautiful woman.”

Meira laughs in disbelief, and closes the last of the distance between them until they’re standing toe to toe, slipping her hands carefully onto Layla’s hips. “You’re supposed to ask for proof.” She chides through a smile.

“How are you supposed to prove it if you’re not even sure you can do it in the first place?” Layla counters, shaking her head at Meira.

Meira is so damn glad she’s not wearing her coat right now. She’s in one of her prettier halternecks, since they’d been planning on driving and not hunting today, which means that she doesn’t have to waste any time fiddling about with buttons before she can unfurl her wings. Layla gasps, eyes going wide as she stares over Meira’s shoulder. Her hands, which have settled just above Meira’s elbows, spasm, like she’s not sure whether to grip tighter or stop touching.

“You…” Layla breaths, then refocuses on Meira’s eyes. Her own are filling with tears. “What is this?” She asks softly, smiling and crying all at once. “You said that God doesn’t throw miracles around to prove he cares.” She recalls, and Meira nods in confirmation. “This is starting to look like a miracle to me.” Layla admits, tone wondering.

Meira feels herself blushing, which doesn’t happen to her very often. “God didn’t send me.” She counters quietly.

Layla takes that in, and still, there’s no suspicion, no wariness, even though common literature would say that any angel not obeying God’s will was a fallen one, and thus in thrall to the devil. “Is that why you’re not sure if you can heal me?” She asks instead, frowning faintly at Meira; not out of censure, but _concern_ . This _woman_ , Meira thinks, awed.

“No. I’ve been… trapped, within the confines of my body.” Meira explains, as simply as she’s able. “I ought to be able to reach out and heal you with nothing more than a touch, but… My grace can no longer affect anything beyond my skin.”

Layla’s frown deepens in confusion. “Then… why would a kiss change that?” She asks.

Meira will admit to being a little relieved that she’s actually asking questions, even if she’s not entirely sure how to answer this one without getting into a convoluted lecture on metaphysics. “Kissing is communion.” She says finally.

Layla laughs, blushing faintly, and then nods. “Alright.” She says, and it’s clear enough that she doesn’t have any more questions, that this is more than just her acknowledging Meira’s authority on the subject of kisses. She’s saying ‘yes’ to the first question Meira asked.

So Meira leans in and kisses her. She takes just a moment to savour the press of lips on lips, then reaches out with her grace. Agony blooms through her, white-hot and sharp, but even through it, she can feel Layla’s soul, warm and beautiful and soft as feathers, she can _touch it_ , and through it, the rest of her, body and mind. For one, brief moment, she can sense all the little pieces that make up Layla Rourke, and the dark stain of the tumour in her brain, cells all out of alignment with _what should be_. Meira sweeps her grace through it, putting it to rights, and nearly blacks out at the whiplash as her grace is reeled back in.

“Meira!”

The pain starts to recede, agonisingly slowly as aftershocks more painful than she has come to expect jolt through her, and Meira distantly realises that she’s… lying down? That can’t be right, because she was outside, but there’s something warm and comfortable under her head, and fingers combing through the strands of her fringe. Layla. Right. She’s lying on the muddy grass with her head in Layla’s lap. That last part is actually pretty awesome. The first part? Not so much. “How’re you feeling?” Meira slurs out without opening her eyes, curling into Layla’s warmth and breathing through the last of the pain.

Layla breathes a sigh that’s light with relief. “Healed.” She says, tone glowing. Meira smiles, and turns her cheek into Layla’s thigh. It’s such a nice distraction from the buzzing in her nerves. “How are _you_ feeling?” Layla asks, worry clouding that joyful note.

“ _Ow_.” Meira answers simply. She thinks back to the last time trying to use her grace hurt this badly, and winces. “Did I have a seizure?”

“Yeah.” Layla confirms softly.

Meira grunts, part annoyance, part resignation, part pain. “Sorry.” She mutters.

Layla’s fingers still in her hair for a moment, then resume stroking. “Don’t be ridiculous. You _saved my life_. I’m just sorry that… that you got hurt in the process.” She counters, going from emphatic to subdued between sentences.

“Worth it.” Meira replies, finally feeling okay enough to open her eyes. She turns her head to look up at Layla, who’s clearly been crying, but beams on seeing that Meira’s looking at her. “So worth it.” Layla laughs, shaking her head, then bends down to press another, chaste kiss to Meira’s lips.

“Thank you.” She breaths against her mouth, and then sits up again, and goes back to stroking her hair. “I can never thank you enough.”

“Do me one favour and we’ll call it even?” Meira requests. Layla raises her eyebrows in question, open and trusting, and Meira thinks of the gentle-soft brush of her soul and thinks maybe she’s a little in love. “One day, tell Dean you got your miracle, but don’t tell him you got it from me?”

“Sure.” Layla says, looking puzzled.

“Oh, and, gimme your number?” Meira requests, reaching into her pocket and pulling out her phone. Layla laughs, but takes it and puts her number into it while Meira levers herself up and dusts mud and bits of grass off her clothes, pulling faces the whole while. Layla takes one look at her expression and bursts into giggles. “Don’t laugh at me.” Meira whines, insincerely. “I’m used to being able to clean clothes with a thought, and now I have to worry about _grass stains_.”

Layla hands her phone back, shaking her head in amusement, then gets to her feet and holds a hand out for Meira. She takes it and stands, and only then realises that at some point, her wings got tucked away. Probably when her grace recoiled, she thinks ruefully. Together, she and Layla amble back to Layla’s car in peaceful silence.

Once there, Meira turns to Layla. “If you ever need another miracle, gimme a call.” She says.

“I still can’t quite believe this is happening.” Layla admits, pressing a hand over her mouth for a moment as it all threatens to crash down on her at once. But she sniffs and pulls herself together with another smile. “I hope things go well for you, Meira, and that… that whatever happened to you, you find a way to undo it.”

Meira can’t quite stop herself from reaching out and brushing her knuckles over Layla’s cheek. “Thank you. I hope life treats you well from here on out.” She offers, and then grins, withdrawing her hand and backing away. “Enjoy yourself, Layla.”


End file.
